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Kik-Back Country

- FORWARD -

I never had any idea that I could have kept plugging along for over 12 years,
writing about stuff and things. My, how time flies! It’s been four years since Kik-
Backs was put together. Seems like events, past and present, keep popping up in
my surroundings.

The human mind, when it’s all-together holds an amazing amount of
memories. Yet my mind has some genetic faults. Short-term memory allows me
to dial a number that I find in the telephone book, then forget the number at the
first “Hello.”

In my spare time, I simply write as a hobby. During my teen-age years, I
started keeping a diary of my rather discontented life in Southern California. It
served as a pacifier during those years that I longed to return to the land of my
birthplace.

In 1939, Sugar tQok over the job of keeping a diary. All this stored up
material was a help for some of my stories. So were all the records, clippings and
notes that I have laying around in a careless manner.

Big thanks goes to Phyllis Hinkins for her artistic ability that adds a visual
picture to some of my stories. Appreciation goes to Frank Stedman for taking on
the job of publishing this book. I have given Sugar some extra hugs (the
affectionate kind) for being my dictionary, and proof reader. My final thanks to
you good readers for all your response, both the good and the not so good.
Especially on the touchy subjects. You made my amateur writings a challenge.

Pen and Ink Drawings,
Cover - by Phyllis Hinkins

Printed By
The Wilbur Register
Wilbur. WA 99185

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page

Christmas Time Once Again. 1

Remembering Santa Claus.1,2

Little David.2, 3

Ten Days Before Christmas.3

New Year’s Eve.4

Income Tax Time.4,5

Returnable Land.5, 6

Spring Will Come. 6

Letters From The Past. 6,7

Country Schools and Country Preachers.7,8

More On Country Schools

The sorting out process of life leaves less people
each year to celebrate those birthdays that are connected
with the makings of Lincoln County. One such event oc-
cured the last Sunday in October, 1985. That’s when
Irma Zellmer rang in her 90th birthday at the Davenport
Methodist Church.

For those that don’t happen to know Irma, she is a
friendly lady that has spent a large proportion of her years
as a working partner with her farming husband. Irma is
the mother of Judge Zellmer, teacher Vern and Richard
who with his family resides on a once stately farmstead.
It’s been modernized, but in the pre-Zellmer days it was
the show place for a lot of interesting early day social
gatherings, but that’s another story.

If time could take us back three score and ten years,
you would find Irma teaching kids of all sizes out at the
old Sassin school (south of Edwall). Her scholars are now
retired or have served their allotted time.

This flashback causes me to go on another school
binge. . . so here goes. The Sassin one room school was
built in 1889. During that era other parts of the county
were also busy building schools so their kids wouldn’t turn
into blockheads. Just take a look at an old surveyor’s map

of Lincoln County, and you will see that at one time there
were over 60 schoolhouses dotting the country side.

Those quaint little schoolhouses are all gone now.
The coup de grace came in the late 1920s and early 30s.
Some were moved and used by farmers as graineries or
chicken houses. Most of those rural teachers married
themselves off to young farmers. Those educated ladies
were considered real catches by the eligible bachelors.

It’s hard to believe but a twinkle of the past still lives
on. Over on the coastal San Juan Islands, there is a clas¬
sic one room school whose bell still tolls for the dawdling
students. It was built two years after Sassin pioneers layed
out their school. It’s been operating continually ever
since, and is now on the National Register of Historic
Places. However, the school is plugged into the modern
world via a minicomputer which kids use in their school-
work.

Before closing the chapter on Sassin school, let’s

take a brief peek at what school was like nearly a century
ago. When Sassin opened up it's brand new school, kids
of all ages arrived and were ready to absorb some educa¬
tion. One of my aunts was already too old for school and
never had a chance to receive any formal knowlege. Dad
was a border line case, but did look a little younger than
the teacher. However, upon reaching the fourth grade
the little kids started calling him whiskers, so he quit. The
teacher, Lydia Hemmersmith had only a fifth grade
education and sort of learned along with the older kids.

When the weather got cold there were no hot
lunches; their stomachs had the job of warming up the
food that was in their lunch pails. One day a lunch dis¬
pute caused an afternoon vacation to set in for the whole
student body. It started when the teacher brought a can of

sardines to school and told the boys there should be e-
nough little suckers in the tin for a taste of fish for each
one. When the flat tin can got to Alby Jurry he gobbled
down what sardines were left, leaving the last boy, Joh¬
nny McPherson without a fish treat. Johnny just wanted
to whop Alby for being a hog, but it turned into pounding
the stuffings out of each other.

When the fight ended, the two battlers walked
home, so did the rest of the boys and girls. This left Lydia
the teacher with nothing to do but to walk home also.

The Sassin and Rocklyn districts are just small exam¬
ples of early day school life that the youngsters encoun¬
tered. In my own environment, the Sassin school with it’s
small church and a cemetery down the road aways gave
a perfect setting for the ‘little house on the prairie’ at¬
mosphere.

This community in summer enjoyed the scab lands
that wound through the district. It held the running waters
of Rock Creek that emptied into Crab Creek. This terri¬
tory had a mini-falls that produced power for grinding the
settlers’ grain. There were just lots of choice spots where
camp meetings, picnics and outings were held.

Farther down this ancient drainage bed was where
the Lincoln-Adams county Pioneer Picnic grounds was
located. It had a pavilion, grandstand, race tracks, and all
the paraphenalia that goes with such big early day blow¬
outs. From the Sassin school house landmark it isn’t too
far to the oldest continually occupied log house in the
State of Washington. (I think so; it’s never been chal¬
lenged). Built 117 years ago, it’s getting a remodeling job
by it’s present owner. In the early 1870s stage coaches
would stop there to allow passengers to do some leg stretch¬
ing and later it housed the Sassin Post Office.

Davenport In 1884 - Fourth U.S. Infantry Camped in Main Street.

An Event In Judge Zellmer’s Life

Frontier justice may have been crude, but the merits
were the same as now, although some judges didn’t al¬
ways abide by their sworn oath. I remember my dad tell¬
ing about an early day judge, and his son-in-law, who
was a lawyer. They got into a dispute, and didn’t take it to
court. Instead they got into a downtown fist fight. The
two had been drinking causing them to rely on their basic
instincts.

Over 50 years ago I saw Will Rogers in a movie role
as a country town justice of the peace. Will was scolding a
guy for being hauled before his bench for the second
time. This pest was making a public nuisance of himself
by pestering people on the streets. No it wasn’t over any
abortion issue. This guy found other reasons to hamper
citizens from moving about freely, so into the clink the
justice of the peace had him put.

Our own Judge Willard Zellmer has a much more
educated way of handling problems than our early day
peace makers had. It’s quite a responsibility to be a judge
now, with all the complicated angles that appear on the
20th century scene. You just got to know your stuff.
These anti-abortion people could have some excitement
going for them while their gold plated, publicity seeking
lawyer is testing out the first amendment.

It’s a simple trick for certain religious folks to force
their kind of law on the rest of us by saying, “That’s what
God said for us to do, and we are going to march here
until the Lord tells us differently.” If they are really hear¬
ing voices from outer space, it could be that they are hal¬
lucinating. In that case they need special psychiatric treat¬
ment.

Zellmer’s sentences brought out this brave statement

from the ladies, when they said they would rather rot in
jail than burn in hell. Even though the flames of hell are
for eternity, that divine threat wore off in a few days, and
the ladies decided not to start rotting in jail. After getting
themselves sprung, they marched down to Davenport
and asked Willard what he was going to do about that
hellhole of a jail in Spokane.

Now that’s asking too much from a visiting judge that
was called as a helper to administer a point of law in Spo¬
kane county. There is no legal way that Judge Zellmer
could decorate the jail for them. Someone should tell all
prospective jail patrons that there are no special catering
services available.

Talk about the spreading notoriety of our own coun¬
try bred judge; that Sunday when Sugar and I completed
running in a rodeo run out west at Coulee City, a short
type lady spectator who knew who I was, came up to
talk. After visiting briefly she said, “Judge Zellmer is not a
Christian. If he was a Christian he wouldn’t be jailing
those pickets that are working for the Lord.”

Hearing words like that sort of tightened up my ton¬
gue. Finally I asked her what church she belongs to. She
told me she was a Bible believer. Then I told her I didn’t
doubt her beliefs, but was wondering what denomination
she attends. She then informed me she attends where the
Bible is believed and lived by.

After she sort of put a curse on me for my viewpoints
on religion, Sugar and I took a drive through Coulee
City’s main street. Sure enough, about a block away from
the town tavern, and a saloon stood an old narrow build¬
ing that had a large sign splashed over the top of its door
which read, ‘Bible Believers Meet Here.’

It seems as the years go by there are more branches
added to the tree of religion. I wish I’d have told that
screwed up lady that Judge Zellmer has been church
minded all his life and that his pioneer ancestors were
chuck full of religion.

The Judge has been active in about every depart¬
ment of the Methodist church. When I was Sunday
School superintendent I taught Willard’s high school class
part-time while he was attending law school.

When young Zellmer came back to his home town
church, he took over his old class. I was glad he did, as I
was drifting toward material thinking and that’s bad for a
Sunday school teacher to do. I found Willard increasingly
taking an important role as a balance wheel between the
young and the old church members when it came to
practicing stable religion.

Good gosh! Ever since Willard’s high school days,
his voice has been blending with the church choir and for
years he was a delegate to the Pacific Northwest Confer¬
ence. He was one of the earliest travelers to use the north
pole crossing on his way to London as a delegate to the
11th World Methodist Conference.

That’s my version of Judge Zellmer’s record as a
Christian. I wish I had been better prepared to explain to
folks who like to pass judgement on someone else’s
Christianity.

Nevins, a Unique Judge

While President Roosevelt was giving us hope over
the radio with his fireside chats, a Spanish-American War
veteran was our Superior Court Judge. He was the very
honorable, Judge William Nevins.

He came to the bench bringing with him his unique
life style that was independently of his own making. An
individualist of the novel kind, yet his eccentric ways ne¬
ver influenced him in handing out fair decisions. I don’t
believe Lincoln County will ever produce another judge
just like him.

The judge’s stately board like figure, especially when
he walked from place A to place B, could be recognized
blocks away. His striped bird-legged pants and plug hat
was his trade mark when he reached judgeship status.

A bachelor by choice, yet he was able to hand out
some practical advice to the maturing young men about
town. I asked a couple of Nevins old proteges if his advice
was of practical value. “Yes” was the answer, “especially
when some of us guys were inclined to sow some wild
oats in our younger years.” Seems like the knowledge the
judge handed out came from his own experience.

It would take another column to squeeze in all the
stories about the judge’s way of life. Since many tales can’t
be verified, it wouldn’t be fair. I’m sure Nevins’ ghost had
to suffer a few of them. Like the story about the judge
stopping his car on the side of the road every time his
speedometer counted off a 1000 miles for an immediate
oil change. Since no one said they saw the judge’s skinny
legs sticking out from under his car, changing oil, it’s hard
to believe.

That juicy story got started when the judge bought a
new 1928 Dodge Victory coupe. The car’s manual read
to change the oil at 1000 miles. When that amount of
miles showed up on his speedometer, he was cruising a-
round the Sprague area. The judge stopped at the nearest
telephone and called Raymer, the garage man in Daven¬
port. Raymer told the judge it was safe to drive back to
town where a service man would be waiting to get rid of
that worn out oil. Nevins’ relic is now owned by Gary and
Marian Geib of Wilbur.

The judge always ate his main meal at the down¬
town restaurant. He was one of our first healthy eaters.
However, he did like a slice of roast beef to go with his
daily noon meal of one large bowl of chopped cabbage
with a back up bowl that was filled with lettuce. It was the
waitress’ chore to see that gobs of vinegar and oil was
supplied to pour over all that green stuff.

One day the judge disappeared after he was seen
seated next to his two bowls of dinner. Finally the judge
returned with a head of lettuce in his hand that he had
purchased at the grocery store. He handed it to the wai¬
tress to be chopped up. The lettuce in his bowl that day
was too wilted to slide down the judge’s throat.

In the late 1930s, I was witnessing a trial of mild in¬
terest, when Judge Nevins suddenly declared a recess by
announcing, “I believe some of the jurors may like to
hear (by radio) the Joe Louis fight. That’s what I’m go¬
ing to do.I assure you the recess will be a short one.”
Heavyweight champion Louis, the ‘Brown Bomber,’ was

The present Lincoln County Superior Court Judge, Willard Zellmer,
enjoys the history of the late Judge Nevins who passed away in 1963.
Judge Zellmer is standing by a picture of the unforgettable judge who
Zellmer describes as part of the folklore of Lincoln County.

known as a quck knock-em-cold type of fighter. Sure e-
nough, the judge predicted correctly. In less than 20 min¬
utes, the court was back in session.

I couldn’t help but admire Nevins for doing what his
inherited genes nudged him to do, rather than follow
the protocol. A song that I like, “I Did It My Way,” applies
to the judge. His face always looked sober. When the
judge was visiting, I never saw him burst into a laughing
spell.

How did William Nevins get started in life? Well, the
first thing he did when he turned into a man was to serve
two years in the army during the Spanish American War.
Upon coming west from Iowa, Nevins worked on a stock
ranch, and homesteaded in the Odessa area. He also
taught school at Bluestem and around Odessa.

Deciding to get smarter, Nevins got a hold of more
education, so he could become a lawyer. This path even¬
tually lead him to become our judge for Lincoln County.
He served from 1928 to 1944. Then he slipped back in as
judge from 1952 to 1956.

All those years of Judge Nevin’s wage earnings made
him grow heavily in monetary value. He didn’t have a
family to raise, and his Dodge Victory Six didn’t cost him
much to run because he changed the oil at the correct
time. The judge just simply piled up a lot of dough!

The Veterans of Foreign Wars figured it would be an
honor to have his honor become a member of their orga¬
nization as a representative of the Spanish-American
War. To get the judge interested, they paid his member¬
ship dues.

This so pleased his honor that he left this veteran
group a good size slice of his inheritance. That organiza-

tion is now able to perform civic projects from the Nevins
fund. Though he was not a religious guy, he left a good
size chunk of his left over dough when he died to the
four main churches in Davenport. Wherever the judge
landed after his retirement, he dug into his inheritance
bag a little deeper. A nursing home and the Odessa hos¬
pital were remembered very well by this reserved bache¬
lor.

When Judge Nevins passed away in 1963, the Da¬
venport Times was asked by a reader, “How come there
was no picture in the paper of the deceased judge?” The
next week’s Times printed the answer to this reader’s
question. It seems years before the judge’s retirement, a
photographer was sent to get some pictures of Nevins.
This is what Judge Nevins told the photographer. “Once,
years ago, I was seated inside of an outhouse on a nearby
farm when a startling shreik sounded outside of the door.

In alarm, without thinking, I kicked the door open to see
what was going on. I heard a shutter snap and saw a
friend standing there with a camera pointed directly at my
somewhat exposed frame. I arose, made some necessary
adjustments and attacked, destroying the film in the cam¬
era.

“There has never been another photo taken of me.
And there never will be.” This concluded His Honor’s
statement.

That’s what the judge thought. Sugar’s brother-in-
law, George Mielke, at considerable risk, sneaked up on
old Judge Nevins at a Harrington barbeque and snapped
a picture of his honor’s face. It was the only known pic¬
ture ever taken of the judge. In memory of a unique
judge, Judge Zellmer had an enlargement made of
George’s prized picture. It’s now hanging on the court
room wall.

Promoter, Judge Warren

Let me share what an old time judge had to say
about our county. From 1900 to 1907, Lincoln County
didn’t know how great it was ’til a smart guy by the name
of W.T. Warren got elected judge. He not only took care
of horse thieves, and other bad guys that needed to be
punished, he promoted our county as worth considering,
if at all interested in living a prosperous life.

When Judge Warren spoke, Lincoln County lis¬
tened. To him, the name of Lincoln carried thoughts of
freedom from bondage. “No other county in the State of
Washington can show as many citizens who came to it
broke and in debt, and who are now living in ease and
comfort, free from debt and with money in the bank, as
Lincoln County,” so said Judge Warren. It’s interesting to
know that Lincoln County had a financial secret that we
now have lost.

For those of us that grew up here years ago, this ear¬
ly day judge makes us feel that we were the greatest. He
stated, “Lincoln County citizens are the most indepen¬
dent and up to date class of citizens to be found anywhere
in the state.” His reasons were that Lincoln County Pio¬
neers grew up rugged on sage brush, jack rabbits, arid cay-
use ponies. The other counties must have been short of
these basic ingredients.

The judge went on to say, “I cannot call to mind a
single farmer who came to town to do his trading, who
came in a buggy or surrey; they came for necessities in an
ordinary farm wagon, using a board with cleats nailed on
it in place of a spring seat, for the reason that the spring
seat cost extra, and they did not have the means to buy
it.”

Since many progressive settlers had family sized or¬
chards, Judge Warren had visions that our county was
fast becoming the fruit center of the Inland Empire. He
made this statement; “Up to ten years ago, the man who
attempted to raise fruit on the high land and away from
the river bottoms would have been considered a fit sub¬
ject for the insane asylum; today the upland fruit grower
is considered on par with, if not ahead of the river bottom
orchardist.”

The judge proceeds to tell about all those fruit trees
that I missed seeing when I was a kid. “Peaches, pears,
plums, apricots, and berries grow to such perfection in
this county, that we do not have to take our hats off to
any other county in the state. Our orchards are young,
thrifty and free from disease . . . We can even now make
some of the fruit growing counties open their eyes.”

Even the mule raisers around Harrington caught the
gazing eyes of Judge Warren, and brought forth this
statement from him; “In portions of the county the far¬
mers have engaged extensively in mule raising with such
success that the Missouri or Kentucky mule breeders
would be made to turn green with envy.”

Reardan came in for some praises too. The judge
spotted a sorghum mill that town. It had just started to

use the cane which he said was being raised along the
Spokane River. A concrete factory was busy making con¬
crete vaults for storing surplus money in. He also men¬
tioned Harrington as the future manufacturing spot for
farm machinery.

The judge recognized Davenport for its soda water
factory. Maybe the courthouse and the Judge’s Chamber
was all he figured Davenport was capable of. However he
did state that Davenport grew lots of extra high grade
wheat, which we all know, so that’s not old time news.

Seems like it was important to the judge about want¬
ing everyone to know that our county was full of Chris¬
tians. He states; “Lincoln County is a Christian county. I
am unable to say exactly how many churches there are in
the county, but from where I sit at my desk I can count
eight church spires raising heavenward . . . and Sunday

Pioneer

Before the turn of the century, the idea of a pioneer
picnic on Crab Creek entered the minds of our early set¬
tlers. The first picnic was on the primitive side. The tall
grass was their chairs. Songs and speeches were heard
echoing through that wide coulee. For horse racing, they
used the trail-like roads that wind through pastures and
fields. Foot races took place where rocks and sagebrush
were scarce. For that one day outing, everyone brought
enough food to keep their bellies full.

In 1902, this pioneer group got big enough to turn
itself into the Lincoln-Adams Counties Historical Associa¬
tion. To be a member, all you had to do was to have lived
around here before Washington became a state.

That active bunch really went to work down on Crab
Creek. They laid out and built all the things needed to
make those pioneer people happy for three days. An au¬
thentic horse race track was scooped out, and a large
grandstand was connected to the track. For evenings of
paired off closeness, a good sized dance pavillion was erect¬
ed. A midway was laid out for hucksters, a merry-go-
round, and a speakers stand for acts of entertainment.

One year a pretty lady did some death defying stunts
from a smoke filled balloon that was on its way to the sky.

schools are held in various school houses.”

Judge Warren left a lot of praises for us Lincoln
County blue bloods to gloat over. It should give us
enough ego to last to our dying day. Here is his final state¬
ment: “The farmers of Lincoln County are not the typical
hay-seeds we are pictured in the funny papers, but the
strong, healthy, intelligent men and women, well read,
independent and self-confident, who are able to hold
their own with any people on earth, capable of convers¬
ing intelligently on any subject from wheat raising to high
finance . . . (I didn’t know that.)

“Taking it all in all with our great natural advantages
and the character of our citizens, as a whole, a man can
truly be proud of the fact that he is a citizen of the greatest
county in the greatest state in these United States, LIN¬
COLN COUNTY WASHINGTON.”

Picnic

It’s too bad that more of these pioneer picnic events
were not put down in writing. All we have now is just a
mouth to mouth recall of past events, that can get lost
through repetition. The time I attended was the year the
depression put the picnic on its last legs. My dad’s high¬
light of the picnic was the year his life long friend Max
Mecklenburg was busy showing off Lincoln County’s first
airplane to the crowd. My aunt Minnie won all the foot
races for her age group while living at Ed wall. All relatives
of pioneer families had similar stories to tell.

Fortunately I have received quite a few letters that
have a lot of authentic old time information. Upon read¬
ing Kik-backs, Bob Harding of Sprague was reminded
that his old uncle, Johnnie Harding went with the Kik
brothers to homestead in the Lake Creek area. Bob then
called me up and told me that Ruby Harding, Johnnie’s
half-sister is still very much alive, and has been living in
Los Angeles since 1920.

This exciting news caused me to send a letter to
Ruby. The information I received from her was like hitting
the jack-pot. She remembers so well when as an adoles¬
cent, she attended those early day Lincoln-Adams
County picnics. Her letter of recalls is unique and histori-

TTj

The beginning of Main Street on the Pioneer
Picnic grounds.

»m , m

cal. With her permission, here are the important con¬
tents:

“Dear Walt. I enjoyed your book very much . . .
John Harding was my half brother. He used to tell us
stories about the days he and Charlie Kik worked for Jack
Lucas on the Figure Three Ranch near Sprague Lake. He
was always a glamourous figure to me. Very gentle, but
lots of fun. He used to come home every fall to help
father hunt wild geese, sage hens, and prairie chickens
which abounded in those days, also to take the current
school ‘marm’ to a couple of country dances.

“My aunt Agnes’ husband, George Tufts used to tell
us stories of Wild Goose Bill . . . What a character. The
Chappels you mentioned were our neighbors up Lords
Valley ... I saw Will Rogers once in 1921. My mother’s
foster sister Lois Miller, was working at the Beverly Hills
Hotel. I was visiting with her when Will came through the
lobby wearing a sheepskin coat and rubber boots. He
stopped to give Lois a message, and he gave us both a
cute grin.

“I used to camp with my aunt Georgie and her hus¬
band Myiell Miller every year at the Pioneer Picnic. It was
the main event of the summer. Charlie Bethel would
hold forth in the speakers stand. Sleepy Armstrong
usually won most of the horse races. Sleepy later became
quite a figure in the racing business ... I have a copy of
his history which was written up a few years before he
died, I’ll send it to you . . . Then there was Mr. Carrico
and his Merry-go-round. He had been an old circus man,
and it was through the circus that he acquired the Merry-
go-round. . .It was of normal size, the same as you’d see at
any amusement park today. It was run by a stationary
steam engine, and played music. We country kids were
fascinated by it. Young couples and a lot of older people
rode it...

“One year the picnic featured a balloon ascension.
We were all thrilled when the balloon was inflated and
rose very high into the air, carrying a very fancy looking
girl in pink tights, who would perform stunts on a trapeze
suspended from a cage of the balloon.

“That was before the automobile and good roads.
There were barns to take care of the campers’ horses.
Some horses were staked out to grass in a nearby field.
There were wagons, hacks and buggies parked among
the trees . . .

“Before long we had a stage couple from Spokane
who came every year to entertain us. They would set up
a platform on the ‘midway’ and sing and put on skits.
Both had good voices. She wore her hair very short and
was ‘stagey’ looking, about forty, which we kids consid¬
ered very old. She always sang, ‘If the men were all trans¬
ported far beyond the northern sea.’

“The ‘midway’ was occupied with all kinds of
booths, where one could buy all kinds of trinkets. Souve¬
nirs, banners, pictures, etc. Also ice cream and cotton
candy. Walt McClelland, old Russell Bacon’s nephew,
who resembled Andy Gump was there writing and selling
calling cards. He was a fantastic penman, and had taken
many prizes for his fancy scrolls, birds, etc. . . After the
ballroom was added, the picnic became more popular
than ever with a very good orchestra.

“The period between the Spanish American War
and the first World War was a great time to live in the
country. People seemed happier and more secure then.
Also our language was intact. “Gay” meant only light
hearted, and a ‘faggot’ was only a bundle of sticks pre¬
pared for burning...

“Those were the days, but we tend to forget about
the bad things. The flies for one. Where there were
horses there were flies. We had fly poison and tangle foot
all over the house. And there was the dust which one
kicked up whenever one went, and the chuck holes!
Thank God for Mr. Macuham who gave us better roads.
I’ve lived in California ever since 1920, but I’m still a
‘Country Jake’ at heart.

“Aaron Miller, my step grandfather and family were
the first to promote the picnic. Others were the Baldwins,
Gees, Kitty Johnson and her husband, Jake Smith who
fought in the civil war . . . and a group from Ritzville.

“There are a lot of old characters 1 could tell you

about. You’re too young to remember Joe Pickle, Tom
Lakina and his nephew Tobe. Anita Malinado and her
step father ‘Old Grizzly Revenaugh!’ The only old timers I
know in Harrington are George Umberwast and Frank
Gately.

“I remember well those pioneer picnic days . . . Be¬
sides the entertainment, getting together to catch up on

local news, sharing picnic lunches, having foot races and
other games...In addition to horse races there were base¬
ball games and a pretty good track meet. People came
from all over for these events . . . One year we came
home in a header box. You have a writing style reminis¬
cent of the sagebrush and scab rock of that country.”
Love, Ruby

A Visit With Ruby Harding

The following year I got a phone call from Bob Hard¬
ing. He stated that his historical aunt Ruby (one of such
rare breeds left) is up from Los Angeles. She is taking
time out from her busy schedule of enjoying life, and
attending the Santa Anita race track. Ruby grew up in the
Harrington-Sprague area. Having corresponded with
her, I was anxious to meet her.

On my way down to the Harding Brothers ranch, I
couldn’t help but wonder why Ruby, still in her prime for¬
sook her homeland for a spot in Los Angeles.

Upon meeting her, the pleasure was all mine. This
alert girl, who soon wil be seeing 90 years of life on this
planet, had a lot to tell me. This veteran at living, who
calls herself a ‘Country Jake’ at heart, has fallen for the
glamour of California living, and loves every minute of it.

Ruby fully intended to come back to her old nesting
place, but the depression of the 30s locked her in down
there. Under the Roosevelt administration, the Federal
Government got on the ball, and took care of a lot of
stuff. They gave Ruby a chance to make a living by con¬
tinually employing her in various government depart¬
ments until retirement set in.

Life got into gear with Ruby when at a tender age
she attended a dancing school for kids in Sprague. Be¬
fore reaching the established age for public dancing, she
went to a masquerade dance at Harrington.

As Ruby’s friends were older, she wanted to keep up
with them, and masqueraded as Little Red Ridinghood. It

assured her just about every dance with ‘Jockey’ Adams
of Harrington, a full grown little guy jockey. Ruby let
Adams do all the talking, so he never realized how young
she was ‘til it was time to pull their disguises off.

Ruby also knew Harrington’s ‘Sleepy’ Armstrong, a
nationally known jockey. These two professional horse
riders could have planted the early seeds of Ruby’s inter¬
est in horses. Harrington’s history is noted for such go¬
ings-on. Ruby happens to be the last of the originals.

After discussing many early events, I asked Ruby
what she contributed her good health to. “Horses,” was
her reply, “When I worry about my favorite horse instead
of myself, it keeps me alive, and free of depression.”

Ruby has a strong desire to sit down, and write up
the many events that she so sharply remembers. But I’m
afraid she is too busy living to take that much time out.
Ruby would like to move back here when she thinks it’s
about time to be planted.

Ruby’s vivid details of early day Lincoln-Adams
Counties Pioneer Picnic has been properly recorded in
the Davenport Times Centennial Issue. She will visit the
site of the old Pioneer Picnic ground before returning to
Los Angeles.

Contrary to my way of thinking, there is strong evi¬
dence, that if you spend decades enjoying watching horses
run around in circles, you can actually keep from becom¬
ing an old grouch. Ruby is living proof of that. She has
such an open mind. It was a pleasure visiting with her.

Her Tragic Death

Dreaming about old time Christmases was interrup¬
ted last year when Richard and Bob Harding of Sprague
called up to inform me that their aunt Ruby lost her life to
a couple of thugs down in Los Angeles.

To me, Ruby Harding was the best informed person
on Lincoln County history during the era she lived in. Al¬
though just a teenager during my dad’s escapades in the
Sprague-Harrington district, she verified many events
that my dad told, also authentic stories I didn’t know
about.

This 90 year old walking historian wasn’t ready to
accept old age. She was returning from the Santa Anita
Race Track where she loved to watch the horses run
around. By herself and in front of her apartment, two thugs
beat and robbed her, and left her laying on the street. She
lived long enough to phone her nephews to tell them that

robbers finally had a chance to do her in.

Ruby didn’t mind living in the heart of Los Angeles
in all that smog. Last year on her last trip up here, she
stated, “There is something happening down there all the
time. It might be a murder, and I have been robbed four
times.”

A highly spirited lady, I marveled at her open mind¬
edness on many subjects. Ruby told Sprague reporter,
Maureen Bourne that she feels people are kinder to
each other today than in earlier history. “People are more
tolerant because everyone is sinning,” smiled Ruby. “It’s
a great life if you know how to handle it. Some people
can’t. If you take anything too serious, it will get you,” ad¬
ded Ruby. Undoubtedly she wasn’t serious enough about
the risk of living such an independent and self sufficient
life in a city that she didn’t fear.

A Pioneer Built Plane

Bower

Mecklenberg first homemade plane
built In the Inland Empire (1912) and
probably was the last.

A few old timers still remember the first plane that
flew over Lincoln County in 1919.. .It had to come down
in a stubble field near Rocklyn. because the engine quit
working. Now. what about the first homemade plane that
made it off of Lincoln County soil?

It was in 1912. out at the Pioneer Picnic grounds.
Max Mecklenburg and a partner by the name of Reuben
Bower made aviation history.

This big event happened just nine years after the
Wright brothers short flight, thus giving Lincoln County a
duplicate of the same feat. Except for an added third kite¬
like wing that stuck out for moral support, the plane was
very similar to the Kitty Hawk that is now in the Smithso¬
nian Institute in Washington D.C. It was a ‘do-it-yourself
built plane. Those guys found plans in a newspaper and
a magazine. It was built of spruce and Washington fir.
and was powered by a two-cycle 48 H.P. motor that had
300 pounds of pushing power.

When Mecklenburg and Bower got it all glued to¬
gether. they hauled it down to Harrington from Colville,
by wagon. On June 16. 1912, this headless biplane The
Mecklenburg-Bower Special’ was drug out to the Pioneer
Picnic grounds and put on exhibition. A tent large enough
to conceal this wonder was erected over it. To be
able to see this thing that defied gravity, a ticket stand was
set up with a 25 cents admission sign pasted on it. Self
appointed, would-be pilot Reuben Bower said if sufficient
inducement was offered, they would make an exhibition

flight over the grounds.

The final day of the Pioneer Picnic was fast coming
to an end. The paid up customers were expecting a test
flight from that darned contraption. Cold feet sort of set
in on those two guys. Rocks and trees around the camp
ground looked pretty threatening. Finally, the plane was
dragged up out of Crab Creek to a strip of summerfallow.
Max told my dad it would be softer, if the plane got up
and fell down.

The darn thing did get up and flew about a hundred
yards before landing cock-eyed on the edge of the sum-
merfailow. After all, it did make history as being the first
plane to fly in the Inland Empire. Mecklenburg and
Bower had a much larger crowd watching than the
Wright Brothers had, and they didn’t have a windy hill to
take off from either. Later the plane got off the ground six
more times without anyone getting killed.

Not long after that Pioneer Picnic gathering cn Crab
Creek, pilot Bower died from a busted appendix at the
age of 35. Some figured the rough landings did him in.
Upon the death of Lincoln County’s first pilot, the head¬
less biplane was shipped to California where its fate is un¬
known. Old Max Mecklenburg did live to a seasoned age.
Since this writing his wife passed away in the Davenport
Nursing Home, and his son Edward died at the Bluestem
farm home.. The propeller from Lincoln County’s first
homemade plane can be viewed for inspection at the Da¬
venport Museum.

Frontier Town

On a Friday night in January 1985, the Bluestem
Grange gave me a i opportunity to tell what I knew about
early day Bluestem. We had a perfect setting foi talking
over the early days of Bluestem. The foggy weather had
a way of knocking out the electricity. The whole Grange
ritual, and the lecture hour was conducted by candlelight,
just like in the old log cabin days.

This flickering light event was held in the old two
story school house. The upper part was never used as a
school. It was built by settlers who had dreams that this
railroad station would never stop growing.

In 1892, when the Great Northern Railroad got its
tracks laid as far as what is now Bluestem, they drove a
Moscow sign into the bunchgrass. Settlers took up the
hint, and began building a frontier town.

It grew to the size and shape that would have made a
perfect setting to suit the modern movie producer of to¬
day. All the buildings condensed for frontier town, USA
were there.

A well traveled wagon road that fed this town,
crossed the railroad tracks as it entered main street. Rows
of seven shed like wheat warehouses occupied the rail¬
road siding. Also a depot, and section house.

Across from this fairly wide dirt street, a wooden side¬
walk, the full length of the main drag was nailed to¬
gether. The buildings that were using this boardwalk,
were first, a two story hotel, located on the starting end of
the wooden sidewalk, followed by a sh£d like meat mar¬
ket, and storage building.

Then came another two story building. The upstairs
of this sturdy structure was the town’s dance hall. Down¬
stairs was the general store. A small bricked in bank took
up some of the general store. Next to this combination
building was the town’s livery stable, where the flies had a
hard time staying out of the general store.

If you kept walking the boardwalk to the west, a
small empty space appeared. It was a place where drunks
could sober up before riding their horses out of town.
Then came the saloon. If you decided to pass it up. a few
steps farther would take you to the restaurant.

Then came a break in the sidwalk. It put you on

ground level, ’til a few feet brought you up to the board¬
walk again, where the town’s blacksmith shop, and
chop mill took up quite a lot of space.

When those old timers got this far through main
street, a lot of them thought about getting a shave, and
maybe a bath. Handily right west of this wagon repairing
and horse shoeing shop was the town’s barber shop.
From there a stretch down to the end of the wooden side¬
walk was the post office. Usually that was the last stop
before heading home.

A town without a jail or a church, the citizens must
have been able to keep themselves out of trouble. Quite
an achievement, especially since they didn’t have any
protection, or guidelines to follow.

How come that new town of Moscow changed its
name to Bluestem? It all got started way down under in
Australia. Long before the turn of the century, a spring
wheat was growing down there under the name of Blue¬
stem. Later the variety migrated across the ocean, and set¬
tled for a while in Davis, California. It didn’t like it there;
the hot weather gave Bluestem a sickly look.

The wheat was shipped north to a cooler country.
The main flow of Bluestem found a home suitable to its
natural environment at Moscow.

John Fry, an eccentric farmer with lots of rich acres,
farmed north of Moscow. He was so thrilled with the
good job Bluestem wheat did to enlarge his already
stuffed pocketbook, that he insisted that the newly
formed town of Moscow change its name to Bluestem.

It's interesting to note that the last homestead that
wasn’t taken, was all fenced in by the surrounding settlers
to protect their newly gotten land. When word got out
that this 160 acres was still up for grabs, Pete Selde, and
another guy thought it was worth the race to Sprague.
They both headed fast like in that direction. Mr. Selde
was 15 minutes faster getting there. The ink was dry be¬
fore the other interested party arrived.

This ghost town is where our unique Judge Nevins
got his start on his way to knowledge, and practical ex¬
perience. His Honor taught school in Bluestem’s old sin¬
gle room school house.

-1 o

At one time. Bluestem must have been a gay old
town. My dad spent one of his early Fourth of July
celebrations with the celebrating Bluestemites. About this
time, another bank was built, but it never opened, so it
didn't have a chance to go into bankruptcy.

There were no empty gold mines there to help dry
up Bluestem. Heavy wheat yields will never revive this
ghost town. It’s now just a place for local farmers to un¬
load their crops. I believe the Bill Warwicks are the hon¬
orary caretakers of this once busy place.

Two Old Time Doctors

The early settlers around here must have been well
read. There was no excuse if they weren't. Seventy seven
years ago. the Lincoln County Times was delivered to
homes throughout Lincoln County for only $1.50 a year.
If you were really hooked on reading, for 50 cents extra a
year, the Times would see that you got the twice-a-week
Seattle P.I.

In the days of cheap newspaper reading, they also
had a cure for cancer. Wonder what happened to the
cure. An ad read: Cancer cured without pain, knife, in¬
convenience. or leaving home. The Mason treatment en¬
dorsed by the International Medical Congress and promi
nent physicians to be the only actual cure. All other me¬
thods are acknowledged useless.

Speaking of physicians, Davenport had its first in¬
ventor doctor scads of years before Dr. Thompson ap¬
plied for a patent on his ’Washington Lighting Sticks.’ Old
Doc. Whitney was quite a guy. He practiced medicine
here around the turn of the century. His logical approach
to health sold quite well among the early Davenport set¬
tlers. He figured that the mop and the carpet sweepers
were the worse spreader of diseases.

In an article. Dr. Whitney made this statement: “If
you have a carpet sweeper, look it over and you will find
it filled with hair, dust, lint, etc., and all these make it one
of the best places for germs of all kinds to grow, and this is
what you are sweeping your rugs and carpets with daily.

“You have a case of cholera, typhoid, diphtheria,
scarlet fever, or any of the germ diseases that are deposi¬
ted on the floor from patient, either from the bowels or
sputa. The mop is used to take it up. and when you want
to mop your kitchen or dining room, this same mop is
used, so we are spreading germs of different kinds all
over our floors.”

It does sound yukky doesn't it? The doctor went on
to say, “Would you allow your children to associate with
people that had never taken a bath? Has your carpet
sweeper ever had one? And still you are using this daily
and letting your children associate with it. You are inhal¬
ing its dust, taking in the germs, and inviting all kinds of
disease to yourself and family...

“Take consumption for instance; how often do we
see several cases in the same family stricken with the dis¬
ease, one after another. I now have cases under my care
that I firmly believe have been taken from the floor or car¬
pet. Think of the eczema of the hands which the good
housewife has contracted by wringing the mop.

“This winter, while thinking the subject over, I inven¬
ted a mop and sweeper that you can sterilize, or boil with¬
out injuring neither floors, carpet or sweeper. You can
use strong lye, or boiling water, take it all up clean and
dry and wear your white kid gloves and not soil them. It
will take the dirt out of every crack on the floor, and even

out of the pores of the wood. Run this same cleaner back
over the floor to take up all the water and dirt, no dust to
inhale. You can also sweep your floor when dry. The
casing of this cleaner is made of solid metal, not a seam to
hide a germ; the brush is made of the best bristle attaina¬
ble. It’s a brush you can’t injure, or scald with boiling
water from your teakettle. You have it always clean. On
the end is a scrub brush which by reversing the cleaner
adapts itself to the floor.

“I am having a carload manufactured in Cleveland
Ohio, and they will be sold by agents only. So when one
calls on you treat him or her courteously, let them show
you how it works, and convince yourself of its merit.
They are not expensive, and I am confident no home will
be without one. I have also patented the same cleaner on
a larger scale for a street cleaner. It will clean a street and
not a grain of dust will escape, deposit it in a large box,
and when full can be dumped or emptied, wherever de¬
sired. No dust to be deposited on the sidwalks or window
fronts. I have named it “The Sanitary Floor and Carpet
Washer.”

Even though it was a good idea, there are no records
whether Dr. Whitney’s scare tactics ever sold very many
of his germ chasing floor and carpet washers. His super
street cleaner model wasn't ever a big hit. The blowing
winds kept the streets clean enough to suit most city
councils.

Inventor Doctor Whitney saw most of his patients in
their homes. It’s been quite a spell since doctors came out
to the ranch to see sick people. Early day doctors only
had to toss a little black bag and a road map into their
rigs. Nowdays it would be quite a chore to lug all their
modern equipment around from the clinic.

The first automobile I remember seeing, was when
sickness sent mother to bed. When mom refused to eat
chicken soup,dad called in on our newly installed phone
line, and told the doctor to come out and see what’s the
matter with mom.

An hour later a cloud of dust appeared as Doctor
Adam drove up to the porch. He was driving a large
looking, rather top-heavy car, that held his wife and a
friend. After a quick visit to see mom, the doctor left the
house in a hurry. Since doctors are people too, he was
excited to show dad all the features his new car had. After
a close inspection, the doctor took dad for a ride to Rock-
lyn and back.

Since we were pasturing his wife’s retired saddle
horse. Doc Adam and his wife extended their stay by
walking out to the pasture to see her old four legged
transportation. Because mom wasn't in such a hot condi¬
tion, the doctor went in the house before leaving, to
check her over for the second time. It was like getting two
office calls for the price of one.

Home Deliver y

Things were different when a lot of us older ones got
born. There was no high technical equipment setting in
the doctor’s office. When a call came in that a baby some¬
where was about to be born, all that was available for the
doctor to grab, was his little brown bag and a pair of pul¬
ling hooks if it happened to be an instrument baby. Then
down the country road he would go.

When 1 was a year and a half old, in the same bed¬
room where Sugar and I now spend about a third of our
time, my sister was born. That blessed event of long ago
happened near the spot where the Kiks now point their
feet when they are asleep. Twenty four years later, sister
Ethel gave birth to daughter Evelyn in the same bed¬
room, and 1 believe in the same bed that Ethel was born.

So far. Sugar has never used the birthing room.

At the tail end of harvest 51 years ago, time was ap
proaching for me to become an uncle. When count-down
started, my sister packed her things and came back to the
place of her childhood days so she could make mother a
midwife and grandmother at the same time.

Late that afternoon when things began looking like
motherhood was approaching, mom called Doctor Sew¬
ell. The doctor hurriedly shoved down an early supper,
and drove out to the farm.

Upon arriving, Sewell took charge by checking over
the soon to be mother. He told Emerson, the father-to-be
to keep his shirt on; that it could be quite a while before

things around here would start to happen. The at¬
mosphere calmed down and most everyone started social
izing over some coffee with the doctor.

Wednesday nights at the movie house in town were
drawing nights for cash prizes. So I snuck out and went to
see the movie “Wagon Wheels.” After watching a lot of
Indians shoot arrows at some covered wagons. 1 was an
xious to find out if the baby had arrived. It didn't take me
long to get home when the last prize was drawn.

As soon as I entered the house. I knew the baby
hadn’t been born yet. Emerson and the doctor were dis¬
cussing past football games. The front room was stuffed
with cigarette smoke. “We are still waiting,” the doctor
told me as he got up to check on sister.

This time Doctor Sewell didn’t come out of the bed¬
room, instead he called the excited, soon to be father in
to help administer ether. Doctor’s theory was to put Ethel
into semi-dreamland so she wouldn’t feel all the neces¬
sary pains of the baby being born.

A lot of ether missed Ethel’s nose and traveled right
up into Emerson’s nose. It caused future father to pass
out, and he had to be helped to the upstairs bedroom.

When the clock was close to striking midnight, the
voice of baby Evelyn was heard. Emerson slept soundly
through it all and didn’t learn ’til breakfast time that he
had finally become a daddy.

Mondovi And The Zeimantz Family

There was little acknowledgement of Mondovi in
that excellent Centennial Special that the Davenport
Times put out in 1983. Sugar was asked if there was any¬
thing about Mondovi in the ‘controversial’ Centennial
Cookbook. Well, very darn little. Between how to make
Mennonite Chicken and Squirrel Soup, there is a para¬
graph on Mondovi.

Since so much has been written about Rocklyn, it’s a
shame Mondovi has been forsaken. After all it’s the same
distance from our county seat as Rocklyn is. except you
got to go in a different direction.

In 1889 the railroad missed Mondovi when it was
building its way to Coulee City. So the town had to be
moved down to where the railroad tracks were. Accord¬
ing to records when Mondovi became Mondovi, there
were only 16 humans inside that proclaimed spot. How¬
ever, when a saw mill got going the usual frontier buildings
began to appear. It helped Mondovi turn into a mini
town. A blacksmith shop went into business mending
broken rigs and farm equipment. The chop and feed mill
supplied supplemental food for a lot of animals. A well
cared for cemetery is still doing business on the outskirts
of what is left of this burg.

Mondovi gave me a place to be born in. Proud to say
it was a decent village. Even though it had a saloon, it left
no permanent effects on my dad during the time my
newly married parents lived there. It had room for two
churches, so you see it was a place more holier than aver¬

age for a place of its size. Streyffeler, the famous old time
Lincoln County preacher got his start by preaching in
Mondovi’s Evangelical church. Later Streyffeler became
converted to the Pentecostal faith. A well known Catholic
family supplied the town with lots and lots of good Catho
lies. It was a tough place for a heathen to survive.

Every settlement has a heritage tale of some kind to
tell. Mondovi is no different than any other place. True,
old time events are slanted to what one knows about the
past.

So now let’s start off by heading east of Mondovi for
a five minute walk down railroad avenue. There to the
left lived a guy by the name of George Betts. He had a
farm but needed a wife, so he marreid my Aunt Lou.
George then built a fancy home. He came from an inven¬
tive family, so built a factory like shop that was powered
by the wind. Shop holidays were when the air stood still.

Having no control over a fatal illness. George Betts
died, leaving behind a practically brand new wife. My
aunt then picked for her second husband, a gambler and
a rounder by the name of Jack Smith. Being full of faith,
she had plans to reform him. Finally Auntie Lou realized
husband number two had no desire to look at the hind
ends of horses all day long while doing field work, so she
sold the farm to my dad.

We will now drift back into Mondovi proper where in
1896, a couple by the name of John and Susan Zeimantz

contributed considerably to the population of Mondovi by
raising ten children there. Eight girls and two boys, a lopsi¬
ded figure that helped balance out a male dominated
population.

John helped support the family by working for the
Puget Sound warehouse in Mondovi. while his wife ran a
boarding house on main street. During the peak season,
she fed up to 20 hungry workers, family style for 25 cents
a meal Poor and unspoiled, the rapidly maturing off¬
springs pitched in to make survival possible. Something like
the Walton family on TV.

Community life provided this town’s entertainment.
On Sunday afternoons the passenger train arrived from
Spokane with a supply of mail and a stack of Sunday
papers that sold for 5 cents. Folks would drive into town
and tie up their live transportation, so they could socialize
with friends and neighbors. By the time the crowd reached
its usual size, the locomotive smoke could be seen
in the distance.

A special event would come to this burg, when a one
man traveling show, showed up. King Kennedy made
annual appearances at the schoolhouse with his Punch
and Judy show. King could make those rag dolls talk in a
ventriloquism fashion to the amusement of bug-eyed
youngsters and fun filled adults. The Zeimantz children all
got free tickets to the show in exchange for supplying
boarding house meals to the man that could throw his
voice.

The Zeimantz teenagers were a friendly bunch. Re¬
gardless of their inherited faith, attending a Protestant
church was no sweat. They got to see a cross section of
life in an early day town that never grew.

Eligible bachelors came in various sizes and profes¬
sions. Among the wife seekers, competition ran high for
the attention of the Zeimantz girls. Even their names
sounded attractive, Mary. Gertie. Irene, Sophia. Minnie,
Lena, Susie, and Margaret.

Before marriage, my dad was stuck on Gertie, but
events didn’t jell. After marrying my mother dad forgot to
take the picture of Gertie off the dresser top. Upon re¬
turning from their honeymoon, mom wanted to know
what the picture signed “With Love” was all about.

Mother, coming from a tightly knitted German-
Russian background felt lost in the mixed society village
of Mondovi. By the time I got born, the Zeimantzes made
mother feel right at home. So much so that mom hated to
leave Mondovi when migration started us back to Rock-
lyn.

Years later, who was the first to get to see our brand
new, day old 1916 model T Ford? The Zeimantz tribe.
Without any driver’s training, dad was able to steer the
Ford to Mondovi with only two rest stops. A 13 mile non¬
stop trip got us back home that evening.

The passing of time has not totally wiped out the
family of twelve. One of the girls, Sophia Phillips is very
much alive and is still living in Mondovi.

Creston

A few years back. Creston was about to become
great. The lumber mill was busy making lumber. When
Washington Water Power pegged Creston as the nicest
spot for making lots of electricity, news reporters came
from all over, and wrote scads of articles. TV cameras ar¬
rived. Lots of interviews took place. Creston also made it
possible for the Blue Sky Advocates to have a spot in his
tory.

What happened to shatter Creston's Dreams? Well,
the recession wiped out the mill A lot of us were guilty of
trying to make it rough for a steam plant to set up house¬
keeping at Creston. Hard times and the short-sighted
ideas that we don’t need more electricity ’til way in the fu¬
ture. may cause WWP not to open up a generating fac¬
tory out here. A potential neighbor like the steam plant
could be a joy to an** community, and would help pay a
lot of taxes.

There were various reasons why some of us op¬
posed the coal plant. Guess I first didn't like to see our
wide open space cluttered up with clusters of people.
What a selfish attitude! It should be a delight to have other
folks enjoy making a living in our great Northwest. Espe
dally, since a WWP prospective electricity making ma¬
chine promised to keep its nose clean by using a better
grade of industrial handkerchief.

If Creston’s low point on the population scale slides
any lower. Deb Copenhaver’s unique western establish¬
ment could be the only attraction left to remind us of by¬
gone days. A bleak picture? Unless Alice Chrisman’s

prayerful suggestion is fulfilled that some industry, large
or small, would make its home by the Butte, doomsday
could arrive.

Creston should not be forced to shrink to a smaller
size. This pioneer town needs to continue on to higher
heights. It does have a good start, as it’s the highest town
in elevation between Spokane and Coulee City. All it
needs is for some company to move in, and take advan¬
tage of Creston’s fame. 'Made in Creston’ could be an as¬
set for any imaginative company.

Since Creston is now sweating out the status quo,
let’s go back to a long time ago, when our country was
brand new. A guy by the name of Henry Verfurth,
dragged a store building down from the Sherman district
so business doors could be opened up at Creston. From
1900 on, the town grew to the size that satisfied the early
settlers. It had everything. A barber shop, a newspaper, a
bank, and what not. Even a head office of a mining com¬
pany, that was located in the heart of down town. For a
price, this company handed out mining stock certificates

Early day Creston was a church oriented town.
When competition from various faiths moved in. five
churches got extra busy on Sundays. It also was the
home of men that helped shoot up outlaw Harry Tracy.

Margaret Underwood w^ote an excellent story about
an early day family that lived at Creston. It was published
in The Gold Historian’ under the title of ‘Creston Pio¬
neers.’

Abandoned Cemetery

About three and a half miles north of Creston, on a
sloping hillside, lies a three acre patch of virgin soil, bunch
grass and all. Out in the middle of this wind-swept spot,
early settlers buried half a dozen of their dead. There is a
mid- 20th century body up there too. It was buried about
30 years ago, bringing the total among the dead to seven.

A tumble-down wood fence that was once over a
grave, lies twisted off to the side. A knocked over granite
plaque can be seen deep in the bunch grass near the spot
of two buried children. A body of a young wife has been
in the ground since 1886. A grandfather’s grave is next
to his three grandchildren of tender age. Off to the side of
this sparcely occupied site, near a clump of rye grass,
stands a hewn out stone. It probably marks the grave of
an unknown body.

It appears the mourners are all gone now. and are
buried elsewhere. The native grass is finally enjoying its
undisturbed life as it has for eons.

A lot of history lies buried in every discarded ceme¬
tery. Some lives ended in such a short span of time. No
wonder we humans like to believe in a transformation of
some kind. After all, we are the only species on earth that
recognizes pending death.

Even a believer in a hereafter, sometimes fails the
shock test. A number of years ago. Sugar and I had the
chore of letting a distant neighbor know that her brother-
in-law had passed away. Having no telephone in that
part of Rocklyn, we drove down. Upon telling her the tra¬
gic news, she sat down and kept repeating. “We will see
him no more. He is gone forever!”

Guess the shock sometimes brings out the instinctive
reality of life’s permanent end Although her sudden, fad
ing faith may have returned later.

There are lots of ways of saying a final goodbye to a
loved one. A well known retired minister told me of a
funeral he once presided over, where the deceased was
not put on public display. This minister has the reputa
tion of handling problems properly. Thinking wisely, he
arranged the service message by emphasizing that the de
ceased body is no longer his. as he is now with his Maker.
Even after planting that seed in the mourner’s mind, the
minister was surprised when several wanted to see ‘good
old Joe’ for the last time

The passing of actor. Henry Fonda, brought back
memories. About 50 years ago. Henry played the role of
non-conformist, young Abraham Lincoln. In one touch¬
ing scene. Fonda sentimentally portrayed Lincoln at the
grave of his youthful sweetheart who had passed away
the year before.

The cemetery was by a river. It was springtime when
long-legged Abe sat up against a tree by the grave. He
had a wild flower in his hand as he fantasized talking to
her. Lincoln told her the spring thaws had risen the river
flow once again, and that the first wild flowers were out.
After telling her he wasn't doing so good without her. he
kissed the flower and placed it on her grave. That scene
cracked me up emotionally.

Burial spots of loved ones carry a very haunting feel
ing of separation. When time levels us all. grave stones
will then just become records for the future generations to

view.

Reviewing A Century

In June, 1985, the Klein tribe of Edwall put on a
thoroughly researched program that made you think of
pioneer days. It was done for those that are related to the
Kleins. In the afternoon, the public was invited.

The Klein’s extravaganza took place in the gym of a
privately run school. Edwall has a unique situation. The
community is divided into two schools of thought. You
are either a Christian Heritage School believer, or you are
not a Christian Heritage School believer.

The old established Methodist church is still operat
ing in the heart of Edwall proper, for those that never had
a reason to go elsewhere. The rest of the Protestant
church-going population attends churches in towns that
surround this burg. A habit that was developed ages ago.
when different Bible following ways were the ‘in thing.'

Anyway, this well designed former public school
building served very well for the heritage celebration of
the Klein-Rux 100th anniversary. This heritage more or
less got its start when old man Kik in 1880 settled in the
Sassin area. His first wife died before arriving in all that
bunchgrass. Needing a second wife so he could start up
another batch of kids, grandfather went around looking
for a young wife. He met and married a teen-age Rux girl
who was far away from home. She was working in a re
staurant that fed the crew that was building the railroad
into Sprague.

When the new bride. Louisa, got adjusted to a hus¬
band that saw many seasons, and a log house full of step
children, she got lonesome. Not for the lack of faces, but
for her family away back in Minnesota. Even with her
scheduled pregnancy. Louisa, and her husband sent out
an invitation to the Rux tribe to come out to Edwall.

It didn’t take Louisa’s family very long to accept the
invitation. They sidetracked a flat car. and three box cars.

then loaded them with their farm machinery, live stock,
and household stuff, including the kitchen stove.

The Rux’s arrival to this virgin territory put their
young folks in line for future marriages to the Kleins.
Bursches. and others.

The Klein story was well told by the members. It was
brought out visually on the detailed family circle chart,
and family tree drawings that were on one wall of the
gym.

There were gobs of relatives there, but on the Kik
side of the Klein tree. Mark Bell was the only one that
could make it. I haven’t seen Mark since he showed me
San Francisco 50 years ago. He has made a successful
career as a teacher in Christian education. His sister Vir¬
ginia also enjoys the fruits of a good life in Palm Springs.

At noon the sponsors filled us up with a lot of good
food. We were then ready for the pre-arranged trip into
the past. The Kleins chartered Grayhound bus tour beat
any of the Hollywood tours to the entertainment world.
Sounds far out? Well maybe, but you got to be a local his¬
tory buff to understand, and have the imagination to fi¬
gure how things looked around a century ago. The an¬
cestors gave us a story by the landmarks they left. That's
more impressive to me than the tinsel town tours of Hol¬
lywood.

The bus tour ran every 45 minutes from the school
yard, and wound through the landmarks of the Edwall-
Sassin area, with members of the Klein family moderating
points of interest.

The first bus stop was where in 1880 old man Kik
homesteaded. Early stories flashed through my mind,
like when in 1881 grandpa harvested his first wheat crop
with a cradle scythe, averaging one acre per day. Now
those same rolling hills harbor huge combines that make
wheat fields disappear in a matter of hours. From there,
more fertile fields showed up where the four Rux sisters
settled with their husbands to a life of farming. Soon the
road turned, and followed the Rock Creek coulee where
cattle still have to chew the pasture off with their teeth,
just like long time ago.

Our second stop was at the old Sassin schoolhouse
site where the Kleins drug up the old cornerstone for
viewing by interested eyes. Down the road aways. our
next stop was at the old Sassin cemetery. Up on the hill,
all by itself stands a lone mini Washington monument
tombstone. It is the burial spot of an old whisky soak.
Chris Deeg. For a while Chris enjoyed being the second

Roaming

Ever since cousin Robin Williams started to make a
living by making movies of far away places. Sugar deve¬
loped a traveler’s itch. She secretly wishes I'd spread my
territorial interests farther than just the Washington wheat
fields and Lake Roosevelt. Restless Robin just loves to try
to get people off their duffs to take flying trips to Europe.
Sure, a lot of those foreign places are pretty to look at.
because they are loaded with gobs of European history
and culture.

For a set amount of dough, plus some relative privi

Telephone poles and fence posts mark spots of interest
on Klein’s laid out chartered bus tour.

husband of Louisa Kik. Then we viewed the rock remains
of the first German Evangelical Church in the Territory of
Washington. It was built in 1884 on a lonesome spot, but
I guess old settlers were used to that.

Then across the coulee the bus scooted to where a
better church was built. I remember that church well, as
they used to invite the Rocklyn bunch to their picnics. Af¬
ter swinging around into some rich terrains, the bus head¬
ed for Gerald’s farmstead.

The highlight there was the Klein Museum, with its
family memorabilia from the beginning. It’s a story in it¬
self. The restored log cabin had a couple of live half
grown girls dressed in ‘Little House on the Prairie’ cos¬
tumes. It made you feel like you were stepping into the
past.

Besides the landmarks, what’s left of the relics of the
past? Well, there’s Irma Zellmer. although not a relic, she
was one of the last teachers to teach in the Sassin school-
house. Irma is very much alive, and living in Davenport.
A cook stove that is in the museum, came with the Ruxs
from Minnesota, plus many other things. One couldn’t
ask for a better day to be taken into the past.

Relatives

leges. Robin invited us to join his summer group for a two
week stay in a castle. So far. I haven’t developed a han¬
kering to run over there to spend time in an ancient dun¬
geon-like. fortified residence. It would remind me of a lot
of dead kings that were a bunch of mean old guys. At one
time, our ancestors idolized those overstuffed noblemen.

What's the matter with our own northwest? It would
be impossible to soak up all the goodies around here that
nature so pleasantly laid out for us. When a guy by the
name of Henry David Thoreau just used his Walden

Pond for his inspirational poems and writings, surely Lin¬
coln County is worth exploring for years to come

We took our traveloguing cousin out to the Rocklyn
cemetery and showed him where his great-grandfather
lay buried beneath the fertile soil. He thought for a while,
then walked over to the edge of the cemetery hill and
said, “I wonder why he settled away out here?” The an¬
swer to his question could fill scads of writing paper. If
only those oldtimers would have jotted down all their
dreams as they searched for new horizons.

Lincoln County fits me just fine. One of Robin’s tra¬
velogues showed lots of statues of nude bodies and scads
of old paintings. We have right here, rocks that Indians of
long ago smeared lots of colored paint on. All this took
place long before Michelangelo was born. The Indians
may not have been too skillful as artists, but they had
more fun playing with waterproof paints than Michelan¬
gelo did. In later life, Michelangelo was forced to paint
under pressure by a lot of bigwigs.

Robin probably would lose his shirt financially, if he
made a movie on the past and present of our territory.
There just isn’t enough evidence that our earliest day In¬
dians whacked each other to pieces, so the excitement
would be missing. It seems like our historical natives were
too busy looking for camas and wild berries to take time
out to make violent history.

A lot of my relatives like to travel all over the world.
After looking things over, they always come back to their
starting points. It came natural for Robin Williams to go
wandering all over the world because his mother was in
England when it was time for him to be born.

Robin’s mother, Gwen is my full blown cousin and
was born with itchy feet. Years ago after teaching voice
expression for the privileged few, she left Los Angeles as
an adventuress on a slow freight boat to Japan. It was
loaded with missionaries, and lots of other stuff. After
gathering some rough knowledge, Gwen started writing
journals. Finally she worked her way across Siberia, then
on to England where she married a guy. Then she got a
job telling stories over a British radio and gave birth to Ro¬
bin.

Before World War two broke out, baby Robin and
his mother went to Germany. When it looked like Hitler
might do a terrorist act on a huge scale, they got the heck
out of there, and later settled in Laguna Beach. Califor¬
nia. Gwen is now spending the tail end of her life selling
Laguna Beach property.

Robin spent his first productive years as a tour guide
on sort of a love boat that cruised the Mediterranean and
other vacation spots. For the last decade he has been
making travelogues in Europe, then spends part of the
year showing his results to colleges around the U.S. Ro¬
bin’s travelogues are good. He has a way of blending his¬
tory with the now world.

One of Robin’s well illustrated movies we saw at
Community College was on the jet set that loves to vaca¬
tion in the Mediterranean where everyone looks ‘cool
like’ and sexy. Robin has just finished showing his latest
documentary film on the travels of St. Paul.

My other cousin Gladys Bohlig and her husband
George have just completed a visit with us. George was

an interior decorator before retiring, and used to tell a lot
of people with fancy homes what's wrong with the insides
of their houses.

They had planned to go to Germany this summer to
take in historical spots and visit with relatives that got
stuck over in the ‘old country’ for all these years. But they
cancelled their trip, as they were upset with the Euro
peans for not supporting Reagan with his sanctions
against the Libyans. A sort of a two people crusade It
was no biggy for them to skip Europe this summer since
they have been over there many times for business and
pleasure.

Their decision to boycott was our gain. They took a
month long trip to check out a lot of things in Iowa and
swung around this way to see what we are doing.

The Bohligs are used to a lot of ocean scenery and
hills that have been worked over to make room for elab
orate homes. They live life on the biggy side and stuff like
that. Since California relatives don't talk the language of
the farmer, we thought it may be of interest if we took
them to the place where Gldays’ ancestors had to dig out
a living. Through a recent letter Sugar promised Gladys a
walk through the land of her mother’s parents.

A week before their arrival. I made a dry run to the
upper end of Sprague Lake, so I could professionally
identify ancestoral landmarks. But time had wiped out
any trace of the farmstead that was located between pyra
mid type rocks. Couldn't even find a square nail from the
torn down house, nor a trace of the stumps from those
stately poplar trees, let along where the barn was.

The old Ekin stock ranch had the house built right
over a spring. A short pipe brought forth water to the kit¬
chen sink by just pumping the pitcher pump handle. Full
cream cans were lowered through a floor opening Al¬
most as good as a refrigerator, but on the wet side. Of
course, I didn’t figure everything would be there to show
Gladys, but I surely didn’t expect the spring to have dis¬
appeared.

For historical value, parts of downtown Sprague

Robin Williams

look lik a semi-ghost town. It could spike up interest of
by-gone days if Gladys could see the old dated buildings,
etc. We just had to wait and see.

When the Bohligs arrived, cousin Trilby joined us.
We spent the day on relative talk, and downing food that
Sugar and sister Ethel had put together. Next day we
headed for the Edwall-Sprague territory. A picnic lunch
was packed to be devoured at the water’s edge of Spra¬
gue Lake. But the two car caravan got separated in the
dust on a road to the historical Kinschi log house.

Lost and going around in circles ate up a lot of time.
The Gerald and Carol Klein’s farmyard made a good

Accentuate

A guy that used to live in Ritzville wrote a letter to the
editor, complaining that Ritzville isn’t such a hot place to
live. He really went sour on this wheat raising community
after completing a trip here from Stockton, California to
visit his father.

This fellow Charles, claims Stockton has lots more
people and parks than Ritzville. (Of course it has; it’s
been overcrowded for years down there.) He went on by
stating, “We have much more to offer to the people of all
ages than Ritzville will ever have . . . We have miles of
rivers, dozens of lakes, 25 show houses . . . and large
churches.” Then he said, “What about Ritzville? Can
Ritzville ever come close to all this?”

Larger churches for larger towns, that speaks for it¬
self. As for the 25 show houses, most of us town and
country bred folks up here just happen to enjoy the com¬
forts of home shows, via television. And save the big time
city stuff for special occasions.

Being's Charles was a high school graduate of Ritz¬
ville, it’s too bad he didn’t get around more. We have
miles upon miles of flowing rivers, some between specta¬
cularly built dams; and creeks galore. Also we are
stocked with lakes, more than the Stockton country could
ever hold.

A 15 minute drive out of metropolitan Ritzville
would have taken Charles to our popular Sprague Lake.
There he would have found several miles of shoreline.
The lake just got a cleaning job. Rarely done on such a
big lake. Soon there will be lots of brand new fishes, wait¬

searching spot for George and I to work out from. Finally
Gerald went out scouting for the lost bunch and found
them wandering around a country lane. Behind schedule
made us cancel the Sprague tour, so we substituted
Kleins’ lawn for the dreams of a lakeside picnic.

One couldn’t have planned getting lost any better. It
gave us more time for a slower walk through the visual
past of our ancestors as we viewed Kleins’ private mu¬
seum, and interesting home. Even though my prepared
tour fell by the wayside, it was much better than trying to
show my cousin the bare grass covered spot where her
grandparents once sustained life.

The Positive

ing for the baited hook.

1 just wish I could have taken Charles on up through
those long deep scenic coulees. There he would see for
himself those many clear blue lakes that extend up to Dry
Falls. Then I’d drive him back to south of Creston and
down through the Lake Creek country. The county roads
there will take you to a lot of pretty lakes that are surroun¬
ded with native grass and scent filled wild flowers. Upon
getting close to those many lonely lakes, you can almost
hear the call of nature to go swimming in the buff. The
many ducks and other water loving birds don’t mind.

Then there’s that national renowned Lake Roosevelt
that stretches on for endless miles, and wide enough to
become an outing by just taking a ferry across it. Charles
stated that gossip is on the increase up here. If so, he
should have taken an afternoon off instead of listening to
stuff that seems to upset him, and headed for this lake of
lakes. There he could visualize what he will be missing
this summer when lots of snow water fills up this huge
cavity, and turns the shores into playgrounds.

I gather Charles is in his early 30’s, young enough to
have gotten interested in the great northwest sport of run¬
ning. If only he would love Ritzville a little bit more. The
Ritzville Fair Feat ’Ash Dash’ is one of our better runs.
These week to week runs go on ’til the return of the snow
birds. About every Inland Empire town that’s worth its
salt has a celebration day of some kind that opens with a
good run. These events give every participant a chance
to feel good, and stay on the road to a stronger dose of
health.

Harvest Links The Past

During the hot harvest season, we like to do our run¬
ning in the morning, usually before the hard working
harvest crews release their energy. Our latest ‘crack of the
dawn’ run took us past where four combines were getting
serviced by Don Schultz’s charged up crew. The head
combine belonged to grandpa Albert Schultz. He was
busy checking his modern self-propel over, and getting it
ready for another hard day of combining.

After exchanging friendly waves with the old and the
new generation of harvesters, I turned to Sugar who was
puffing away and said, “Say, by golly! that old timer,
Schultz represents three generations of harvest workers in

that field, and look, he is still going strong.”

There I was that morning, retired and doing a lot of
funny things on the road, so physical rust won’t set in.
And out there across the road, grandaddy Schultz who
saw many improvements in harvest methods, was keep¬
ing in shape by doing what all constructive farmers were
doing, harvesting.

Grandpa Albert’s days of reaping in the golden grain
goes all the way back to the semi-primitive ways of har¬
vesting. He grew up out there in the Lake Creek country
where people had to learn to survive on the wild and
woolly side. Part of the Schultz family farmed my dad’s

Driving a header box In early
. days was no easy job.

lj§£' v -

homestead place. Wheat had to be hauled by wagon, 20
miles over rocks, through Indian burial grounds, around
lakes, and finally into Harrington.

Albert Schultz’s father, Christ, believed in large fa¬
milies. (by correct count 13 kids) Like most families of
old, everybody that was old enough to work, worked. Al¬
bert got his diploma as a harvester at a tender age, when
he drove header box for his dad’s stationary thrashing
outfit. Too young to pitch the cut grain onto the thrashing
platform, Albert was allowed to take a breather, and
drink some semi-cool water from a canvas water bag.
When men with pitchforks finished emptying his header
box, Albert drove his team back to the header to catch
another load of beheaded wheat.

Manhood was fast setting in when Albert’s father
switched over to a horse drawn combine-harvester. This
advanced thrashing system shaved labor help down to
only five men. It gave Albert a chance to graduate from
sack gigger, to header puncher, and finally the thrill of
becoming a teamster, where he could make 27 horses
stay in line to pull the ‘pull’ machine.

Yes, since those harvest days of old, grandpa
Schultz has kept on riding and driving more advanced

harvest machinery, until now he owns a modern self-
propel combine. When harvest is completed on his farm,
he joins his son’s harvest brigade until the last bushel is
safely put away in the warehouse.

It’s been a long time since grandpa left the Lake
Creek country for better pickings. Lake Creek was a
rough place to scratch out a living. It was full of rattle¬
snakes, and legendary ghosts that scared Doc. Rude off
his homestead. Some horse thieves lived between the
good guys, and the rock bluffs. Moonshiners were able to
set up temporary camp, until it didn’t pay anymore. Land
baron, George Miller moved in, and practically took over
Lake Creek.

Since then, some brave guys have made good in¬
vestments out there. It does have its own isolated beauty
that represents the past in many ways. There are still
ghost, shell-like buildings that haunt from the by-gone
days. While visiting with a writer recently, she figured this
unique space is a good setting for some western stories.
Who knows, the Lake Creek scenery that has been so fa¬
miliar to the Schultzs, Bogards. Watsons, Links,
and many more old timers, may be on TV screens some
day.

The Year Horses Went To War

All the recent liberation that successfully took place
in the Philippines, brought back a bit of local history. It
was 88 years ago that we were busy as a nation liberating
Cuba from Spain. While we were at it that same year, we
chased the Spaniards out of the Philippines. This made
us feel powerful enough to make the Philippine people
wait quite a spell before giving them their first liberation.

The Spanish-American War was a short one, but it
lasted long enough to get Lincoln County involved in

furnishing some horses for the U.S. Army. The purpose
was to put the soldiers on horses so they could do a better
job of chasing the Spaniards off the Philippine Islands.
The Army figured Sprague was a good spot to find some
horses tough enough to ‘make out’ in the Philippines.

An officer and a couple of helpers set up headquar¬
ters somewhere in Sprague and stayed around a week
buying horses. They paid the same price for any cayuse
whether it was middle aged or young, as long as it could

be ridde.i. The only other requirement was that they had
to be able to be led up to the army inspector, who would
walk around the cayuse. A nod meant to put the excited
animal in an assigned corral for shipment.

Uncle Charley and dad were in partnership with
Jack Munch on a horse ranch located along Sprague
Lake. When word got out that army buyers were coming
to Sprague to buy horses, Charley started consigning
some of the ranchers’ stray horses on a commission base.
Another well known guy in the community. Bill Marco,
also went out and rounded up available horses from a dif¬
ferent location.

Charley and Marco rode their own assigned string of
horses. They didn’t mind getting their bodies jarred to
pieces. Charley proved to be the better rider, so was able
to sell more bucking horses than Marco did.

The last day that was left for buying, Charley roun¬
ded up some of Marco’s rejected horses, and was allowed
to run them through the corral again. The ornery ones
that Charley was able to hang on to ’til he could climb off
in dignity, the government bought. I’m afraid those semi-
civilized horses the Army bought at Sprague that year,
gave the cavalry no choice but to plow into the enemy at-
full speed.

Of course Charley walked off with much more
dough than Marco did. This made Marco sort out some
logical reasons that were appropriate to argue with Char¬
ley about. Not very nice words started passing from lips of
the acquaintances. Finally Marco hit Charley on the nose
hard enough to break it. Then he pulled a knife on Char¬
ley and ripped a hole in the back of his coat.

This called for court action. Charley had him arres¬
ted. At the hearing, the judge vindicated Marco for trying
to butcher Charley with a knife, since there were no wit¬
nesses to the dangerous frolic that took place in a barn.

Bill Marco left Sprague for parts unknown. Then of
all things! About 35 years after the Spanish-American
War, Charley and Marco ran into each other face to face
on a Los Angeles street. Right away Charley got pretty
excited. Aunt Myra who was with him when the meeting
of the bodies took place had a hard time calming Charley
down. Finally Marco had a chance to ask Charley for
forgiveness. He said he got religion since that trial of long
ago, and was a preacher in a downtown Los Angeles
mission. According to aunt Myra, all Charley had to say
then was, “Well, I’ll be darned.”

Many dances took place In this old building In Sprague
when pop and Uncle Charley were young guys.

What was life like around Sprague when the Philip¬
pine Islands were getting a working over? As seen
through my dad’s eyes, Sprague had recovered from that
big fire. Ranchers were busy trying to eke out a living
from between the rock bluffs, and those that were farm¬
ing the upper lands were doing very well. After witness¬
ing several carloads of native horses fall into government
hands, some young men figured it would be an adven¬
ture to join the Army. But when rumors got around that
soldiers were dying like flies from malaria, none were
known to sign up for doing a stretch in the Philippines.

However, one well known guy did join up. Our own
Judge Nevins was a Spanish-American War veteran.
When the Judge died, he probably was the last known
veteran of that war from this area.

Harry Tracy, Rocklyn’s Unwanted Guest

Does anyone know about a Saint that I could write
about during our centennial year? It would be more of a
constructive story for the records than writing about an
outlaw like Harry Tracy. I shudder when I think how de¬
sperados filled our history books. I’m told by some of my
friends that we are supposed to be born stuffed with the
original sin. It looks like some couldn’t wiggle out of that
‘so called’ curse, and turned into criminals.

It was over 84 years ago that outlaw Tracy tried to
pass through our territory. It did give a lot ot “good guys
the opportunity to shoot at him. When the bullets started

flying in his direction, it discouraged him so badly that he
killed himself.

Yes, desperado Harry Tracy’s life ended out here at
Lake Creek. Not too far from the old Janett open space
rodeo grounds. Ever since Tracy’s death, scads of stories
have been written about him.

In fact, last year Sugar got a letter from a writer in
England. He wanted to know some added details about
Harry Tracy. It could be that the British Isles are getting
tired of Sherlock Holmes stories. Just recently, the legen¬
dary story of Tracy popped up in True West magazine.

About 32 years ago, Ronald Reagan was able to get
a job presenting the TV show, Death Valley Days. It was
during this time that General Electric produced their ver¬
sion of Harry Tracy’s escapades. It was a flop as far as the
truth was concerned. They had that dangerous guy Tracy
wandering out of Death Valley, where all the desperados
were supposed to come from. Eventually, with guns
smoking all the way up to south of Creston, the big cli¬
max set in. The General Electric producers continued to
manufacture more false scenes by having the Spokane
County Sheriffs in on the shoot-out with Tracy. The
towns of Davenport and Creston weren’t nationally
known enough to consider the truthful story.

Let’s go back to the summer of 1902 for some con¬
densed facts on this guy Harry Tracy. It’s no use now to
digest his life that landed him in the Oregon penitentiary.
But while there, Tracy didn’t want to serve out his prison
term, so he killed a couple of guards, and took a cell mate
with him. The two bad guys were successful in dodging
the law. Tracy and his pal Merrill soon began getting
tough. Upon entering farm houses, they announced their
names. Being sadistic, the two liked to see scared settlers
shake. By standards of the old west, they were very dan¬
gerous guys.

After taking a couple of saddle horses without ask¬
ing, Tracy figured he could make better time if he shot his
convict pal in the head, which he did. Merrill’s horse
could carry a lot of things Tracy needed for a successful
escape.

Tracy and his horses then crossed the Cascades, and
made a trail that led to the Lake Creek country. He
wound up at a stock ranch that later belonged to Charley
Ensor. Harry Tracy caused a lot of excitement around
these parts. About everyone wanted to get in on the act.

Tracy was nothing but a cur of the lowest type, who
lives a miserable and murderous life. Besides that, he was
a nut. Tracy, sitting high in his saddle, led a pack horse
through our exposed territory. It didn’t make sense.
However, it did throw the law officers off course, as they
were looking in places where normal outlaws would tra¬
vel, tree covered canyons, etc.

When rewards for Tracy totaled 4.000 bucks, it
made him a star criminal overnight. He was on the lips of
every citizen from the Pacific Ocean to the Idaho border.
About everyone had a cooked up idea about what they
would do if they encountered this famous outlaw.

During this Harry Tracy saga, my dad was living on a
Lake Creek homestead. Dad and his partners agreed that
if Tracy was to get the drop on them, they would advise
the outlaw to take their white saddle horse. Dad’s theory
was that a white nag would make a good spotting target
for the Sheriffs.

Let’s go back to a Sunday afternoon on a hot day in
August 1902, and focus in on the Lou Eddy stock rand
It was located 15 miles southwest of Davenport. About
four miles from this ranch, the real hero of this drama,
young George Goldfinch, came upon a man camping in
a sheltered high ridge. It was Tracy, but he passed himself
off as a miner. The conversation drifted from weather to
crops, and to asking the lad where Tracy was. Goldfinch
replied that he heard Tracy was supposed to be in the
Wilbur area. Tracy then told Goldfinch he was Tracy.

Historical buffs examining Tracy’s rock. No bullets or
blood stains spots were found.

With a revolver strapped to his hips, and a rifle lay¬
ing across a pack horse, Tracy asked Goldfinch to lead
him to the Eddy ranch. Upon arriving, Tracy made bon¬
dage of ranch owners, Lou and Gene Eddy, also Gold¬
finch. He forced the three to go into a small field to cut
hay for his hungry horses. Tracy’s plans were to stay a lit¬
tle while to do some resting up.

When darkenss set in, Tracy made Lou Eddy fix his
revolver holster, and mend his gun belt. Afterwards, he
shaved, took a bath, and was Eddy’s uninvited guest for
supper. Tracy’s right hand was always less than half an
arm’s length from his six shooter. When beddy-time
came, Tracy let Goldfinch depart with a warning he
would find the two Eddys stiff, if he told anyone of his
whereabouts.

When the lad arrived at the Blenz ranch where he
had a job, he told his boss the hair-raising story and asked
what to do. But Blenz was too stunned to get involved.
So Monday morning, Goldfinch returned to the Eddy
ranch on the pretense that he had left a letter there that
needed mailing. Godlfinch was quizzed by the bad man
who wanted to know where the sheriffs were. The lad
replied he didn’t know.

Goldfinch again was allowed by Tracy to return back
to his place of employment with the same threat that he
would make rigor-mortis set in on the Eddy brothers if he
squealed. The next morning, the lad by himself went to
Creston, and sent a telegraph to Sheriff Gardner and
asked the operator not to make it public. But a man by
the name of Morrison who was in the office at the time,
spread the classified news to the Creston citizens who got
excited and made a group into a posse.

It was Tuesday late in the afternoon when the Cres¬
ton posse came into view of the Eddy ranch. Tracy was
relaxed enough to put himself to some constructive work
by installing a track on the barn door. He looked up and
asked Eddy “Who are those men with guns?” For the first
time, fright set in on Tracy. He sprang behind a team of
horses that Lou Eddy was leading, and told him to lead
the horses into the barn, where he picked up more shoot¬
ing equipment. Tracy then jumped out of the barn, and
kept jumping from one rock bluff to another, as the gun
battle began.

In the meantime, young Goldfinch made an

appointment with Marshal O’Farrell from Davenport to
meet him at Telford. From there the two left for Tracy
country, to see what they could do about the situation.
When they got to the Eddy ranch, to their surprise, guns
had already been blazing away at Tracy. Sheriff Gardner
arrived much later. He was able to get one shot out of his
pistol in the direction of Tracy, thus making him also a
candidate for the reward. Later that evening a shot from
Tracy’s gun took him out of this world. Yet no one dared
to go down to check on Tracy’s condition ’til morning, as
he could have been playing possum.

When Tracy was pronounced dead, about every guy
that was standing around with a gun in hand, hankered
for part of the reward. It was Sheriff Gardner who hauled
Tracy’s body back to Davenport. Not a publicity seeking
citizen who later claimed he brought Tracy back, and
stated he had to fight off souvenir hunters, when they
tried to strip Tracy’s body naked.

At Davenport, the coroner appointed part of the
Creston posse to escort the dead outlaw back to Salem,
Oregon, and to collect the reward. This caused Sheriff
Gardner to see red. He stated he himself was going to

The Ghost C

Thinking back to the early day guys that got into
trouble, one can’t help but feel sorry for our long time de¬
ceased Wild Goose Bill. He was the expansion developer
of early Lincoln County, yet he couldn’t handle his own
frustrations. Bill was pushing 60, and had the feeling of
being burned out. He couldn’t stand seeing his built-in
lady friend dumping him for a more charged up youth.
As most of you know, old Wild Goose killed what he
thought was his girl friend’s side kick lover, and he died
on the spot for his evil deed.

Then there was an early day ‘wind bag’, known as
“Death on the Trail.” After a brush with the law, he
moved back to Davenport. Old Death on the Trail contin¬
ued to brag how he shot tons of Indians, and piled their
bodies up like cord wood alongside his trail. He claimed
the government rewarded him for cleaning out all the
hostile redskins that were hiding in the Dakota badlands.

About the same time, a couple of characters who
claimed they were cousins of Jesse James, settled out
here at Rocklyn. The two bachelor brothers had the habit
of telling how tough they were. But, inherited dangerous
blood flowing through their veins didn’t seem to scare
anybody.

One thing, Lincoln County did have the honor of
destroying, was a choice wild west criminal. It’s interest¬
ing to note why we as human beings make a big deal out
of dead desperados. I suppose eulogizing famous mur¬
derers of the past releases a desire to relive western
shoot-outs.

The time was ripe on July 25, 1984, when we got
together as a group, and spiritually revived the best mur¬
der that could be dug up, old Harry Tracy. Us Tracy cults
got off to a good start that afternoon when the National
Association for Outlaws and Lawmen History came out
from Spokane and headed for “Tracy Rock.”

The scene out in Tracy country last week was quite

take what was left of Tracy back to Salem. Then the Cres¬
ton men said some threatening words. To prevent a se¬
cond battle over Tracy, the sheriff gave in.

But when the Creston men arrived at Salem, Gard¬
ner got in his punches by sending a message to Salem,
telling the authorities not to pay those body escorting
guys any money.

Later the reward money was settled in the courts.
Because the sheriff and the marshal got there too late to
do much damage, the courts awarded the reward to the
Creston gang.

Young Goldfinch should have received the reward.
This lad was betrayed from the start. He was the one that
turned Tracy’s whereabouts in by telegraphing Sheriff
Gardner from Creston, and told the operator to keep it a
secret. But a guy listening in at the telegraph office turned
into spy, and did a Paul Revere at Creston.

It seems to be true, the bad guys like Harry Tracy
make the big time history. But the good guys like this
teenage Goldfinch were just an annoyance to the reward
hunters, and the publicity seekers.

Harry Tracy

different than it was in August of 1902. That summer day
as the sun was heading west, a posse on horses from
Creston was headed south. With guns in their hands, and
pockets full of bullets, they fully intended to do harm to
Harry Tracy if he didn’t freeze in his tracks.

Now, 84 years later, on the same trail the posse
took, a 10 wheel charter bus was snaking its way to the

84 years later, Tracy cults arriving at Tracy’s last stand.

rock that Tracy made famous. The palace on wheels was
loaded with western history minded people from states as
far away as Connecticut.

Four cars loaded with curiosity seekers follo wed this
chartered rig. It was like making a pilgrimage to the Holy
Land. The highlight came when we all got out and stared
at Tracy’s rock for a spell. Finally, alongside this rock,
Everett Cole gave quite a talk about the final hours of
Tracy’s life.

Among the dignitaries that climbed up to Tracy’s
rock was editor Jim Dullenty of True West, and Old West

magazines. Milton Perry, superintendent of Jesse and
Frank James Home Foundation of Kearny, Missouri.
Western author Kathryn Wright of Billings, Montana, and
Martin Kove who plays in T.V. series, “Cagney and La¬
cey.” The locals were more interested in Martin Kove, the
actor, than in Tracy’s rock.

This famous spot is now under the watchful eyes of
cattleman, Everett Cole and family. The scenery out
there is still the same as it was when Tracy bit the dust.
Except for the distant noise of an airplane and power

poles to the south, Tracy’s ghost still feels very much at
home out there. The barley patch of old is now growing
oats. That long bluff where the posse of long ago took pot
shots at Tracy is made out of lava by nature, and still
seems to be well preserved.

Except for the still intact, lovely scenery and the
wearing of cowboy hats, the old west is fast dying out a-
round here. Since we have practically exposed all the
criminals of long ago, how about filling in the cracks of
history with stuff that really made our territory what it is?

Egypt Celebrates

On the road to Fort Spokane, Porcupine Bay, and
all points north, the road goes right by a tule laden
swamp. It’s located just south of the old North Star
Grange hall. Can you imagine that 76 years ago this In¬
dependence Day 1986 that nearly 2000 early settlers
gathered around this watering hole?

Many times on our summer outings, I would point
out to Sugar and friends that this frog pond was where I
spent my first 4th of July celebration. Since I hadn’t reached
my first birthday, naturally I didn’t remember a
darn thing that day. I suppose I was more interested in
my mother’s milk supply, and getting dirt wiped out of
my eyes. It was a long dusty buggy ride that my folks took
me on.

My dad didn’t realize what an advanced era we lived
in at that time, ’til he attended that Egypt celebration. He
told me how the Jeffries-Johnson championship fight
was reported within minutes from Reno, Nevada.

How was it possible in those pioneer days when the
words, radio and T.V. didn’t ring a bell? Well, it was tele¬
graphed from Reno to the Davenport depot. From there
the railroad agent would report each fighting round over
two telephones that were nailed in different locations on
trees. Two receiver listeners would then shout out the re¬
sults. It could have been the first outdoor stereo sound
system. Truly, it was a big deal for those days.

I have written a report on what happened that day,

July 4, 1910, as seen through the eyes of a Lincoln
County Times reporter: “Last Monday was an ideal
Fourth of July, all that the small boy, the big boy with his
best girl, or the parents could wish. It was warm enough
for the lemonade and pop vendors to do a thriving busi¬
ness and for all concerned to seek the friendly shade.

“Hundreds attended the Egypt celebration in the
pine forest on the banks of Inkster’s lake about twelve
miles north of Davenport. Shortly after six o’clock in the
morning the teams began wending their way toward the
pleasure grounds. They were loaded with happy people
and each supplied with a bounteous picnic dinner.

“The writer in company with County Surveyor Reed
and Sheriff Level left Davenport just before ten o’clock,
by auto. It was a beautiful ride, albeit the dust was very
dusty and very deep.

“Arriving on the grounds we found an ideal spot for
such a celebration. There was a goodly crowd already
there and they kept coming from East, West, North and
South until there was from 1500 to 2000 jolly, hot and
dusty people on the grounds.

“The Egypt cornet band and a mixed chorus fur¬
nished instrumental and vocal music for the occasion and
all did well, as the hearty hand-clapping at each rendition
attested.

“The two orators of the occasion, James Freece and
Fritz Baske, two of Davenport’s young attorneys, were
star attractions. We were truly proud of them. These
young men handled the almost threadbare subject in new
and novel lines and held the closest attention of all who
could possibly get within reach of their voices. The song
by the little girls of Egypt, “The Red, White and Blue,”
was splendidly rendered and highly cheered.

“We were introduced to many of the old settlers of
Egypt and vicinity and especially from J.S. Frans, the first
settler did we learn of the trials, tribulations, privations

Speedball, The

During the turn of the century, there lived a guy in
his twenties that made his home where he could find an
outdoor job. His circle of operations was around the Har¬
rington country. He answered by the name of
‘Speedball,’ but letters he had written arrived under the
name of Wes McCann. 1 guess Speedball could have
been called a cowboy by trade. He really was no speed-
ball. and usually would end up breaking even financially
by the end of the year.

How did Speedball get started accumulating what
earthly possessions he ever owned? Well, his makeup left
him wide open for a shrewd guy and horse trader like
Willis Thorp, who migrated up to the Lake Creek country
from Ellenburg. He had a string of Ben Snipe’s ancestral
ponies with him. Snipe at one time was a well known ear¬
ly day cattleman, and all around big shot. Any of Snipe’s
riding stock whether real or fraud, usually brought a pre¬
mium price.

Before hiring Speedball to herd his saleable horses in
all that lush Lake Creek grass, Willis sold him a high
priced horse that had some of Ben Snipe’s breeding stock

and final triumphs of those hardy pioneers who blazed
the way to this garden spot of Eastern Washington.

“The grounds are owned by J. J. Inkster of Daven¬
port, former sheriff. His father, St. Clair Inkster, who, al¬
though nearly 79 years of age, Was on the grounds all
day, the jolliest and spryest old Scotchman to be found in
the Inland Empire. Another of the happy crowd whom
we were pleased to meet was Simon Reinbold, one of the
early and now highly prosperous citizens of that section.

“As the noon hour arrived we couldn’t resist the
pressing invitation of Mrs. W. B. Brockman and her hus¬
band to take dinner with their interesting family. They
had their ample store of good things spread out so close
to that of Jack and Charley Moore and families that we
may have ‘got over the line’ occasionally which was
wholly unnecessary, for everything set before us by Mrs.
Brockman, from the fried spring chicken to the cherry pie
was tempting and in abundance.

“The ball game between Egypt and Larene was wit¬
nessed by an enthusiastic crowd of fans. The Larene
team came off victors . . . The tug of war between the
Egypt and Davenport teams was closely contested and
fairly won by the ‘Egypt heavies.’

“There were a number of foot races and other sports
indulged in. Talk about the wild and wooly west and the
inconveniences of this remote section, why away out
there in the pine forest, twelve miles from town, a telep¬
hone instrument was nailed to a tree and the great Jef¬
fries-Johnson fight was reported to us round after round.
Even over on the ball grounds a phone reported the fight
just the same.

“Never have we been allowed to mingle in a more
orderly and good-natured crowd. During the entire day
and evening not a cross word was spoken and everybody
went home happy and grateful to all who had instigated
and carried forward to a successful termination this model
celebration.”

Lonely Cowboy

flowing in its veins. Also a used, hand stamped saddle
that saw many a cowboy’s fanny, and a fiddle that was
supposed to have been made out of a special kind of
wood. Willis also threw in a couple of personally conduc¬
ted violin lessons.

My dad told me that Speedball did his job best when
the job required his horse. He ate, lived and slept for the
love of his horse and saddle. In fact he once dreamed
that his saddle was stolen. After that nightmare, Speed-
ball almost became obsessed that someone would steal
his fancy riding seat.

Horse trader Willis Thorp had Speedball sewed up
for over a year as his boy Friday, by selling all this stuff to
him on credit. Not only that, Speedball had to use his
debt ridden horse and saddle for his daily horse riding
chore for Willis. He did however, get all the sour dough
biscuits and bacon he could eat. Mr. Thorp and Speed-
ball made their headquarters at the Kik brothers ranch.

Cowboys usually got their evenings off. This gave
Speedball time to listen in on an after supper bachelor’s
bull session. Naturally, women entered the conversation.

Speedy’s ears picked up the information that over the
ridge lives a homesteader that had a grown teen aged
daughter, who’s mother had gone to the great beyond. It
made this girl Anna half an orphan. Her daily chore was
caring for her younger brothers.

Starved for the sight of a pretty girl, Speedball asked
dad if he wouldn’t mind going with him to Anna’s place
and introduce him. Then to stick around a while and help
him josh with this young lady.

Rain the next evening didn’t dampen Speedball’s
enthusiasm for wanting to meet Anna. The two rode over
and tied up their transportation by the watering trough,
then Speedball parked his ever present fiddle on the
woodpile in case it was needed for entertainment.

A tongue tied cowboy made getting acquainted with
dad’s neighbor quite a chore. Dad said Speedball had the
habit of just grinning a lot when the opposite sex was
around. This time was no exception when Anna made her
presence in the front room that night. To show his pro¬
tege off, dad suggested that Speedball go out and get his
fiddle, and play some music.

Speedball sprang up before dad finished his sugges¬
tion, and headed for the woodpile. But the rare wood in
Speedball’s fiddle was too rain drenched for the music to
come out right. The ‘Irish Washer Woman’ sounded
worse than it was supposed to.

On the way back to dad’s place, Speedball didn’t
comment about Anna ’til they parked their horses in the
barn. Then he said, “Anna is pretty, isn’t she?”

Dreams of the Lake Creek Anna faded from Speed-
ball’s mind suddenly when Johnnie Engle, a big shot far¬
mer from the Harrington district arrived on the scene. En¬
gle took what was left of Thorp’s highly promoted riding
horses. Speedball went with the deal.

Speedball could write better than he could talk. Dad
received a total of two letters from him at his new loca¬
tion. He was lonesome for the lakes, and the scenic cou¬
lees of the Lake Creek country. It was a place where a
simple cowoby didn’t have to give an account for each
day of work. If one of Thorp’s horses couldn’t have been
found, there was always another day for riding in search
of that wandering horse.

He just hated riding a plow all day, and looking at
the rear ends of a string of mules. There were two other
guys doing the same thing in that same field. On the
bright side, the daily dollar he earned did give him the
feeling that some day he would be independent. He was
all debt free, and was the legal owner of an aging horse, a
well worn saddle, and a fiddle he lost interest in.

Speedball also stated he wasn’t as bashful as he used
to be, and his social life had brightened up some too. He
had just been to the Fourth of July dance at Bluestem,
and he got to dance twice with a pretty girl.

A Black Man’s Story

Once upon a time, way down south, a black boy was
born. He was named George. His parents were slaves,
who had to work for nothing, with no hope of advance¬
ment ’til Mr. Lincoln came along.

When George got to be a young lad, he hitch-hiked
a ride with the Jack Adams family, who befriended him.
The Adams were leaving Dixie Land and didn’t perman¬

ently stop ’til they found the little old Rocklyn country.

Before the country learned to respect the black man,
he was called Nigger George. Much later in life, he was
known as George Adams.

The virgin ground of Rocklyn and the scab rock
lands to the west, satisfied Jack Adams enough to start
up a farm. George worked for the family ’til death put his

boss out of circulation. He held the title of being the only
black citizen in Lincoln County, and to my knowledge he
held that record ’til his death in 1965.

What kind of a guy was ‘good old George?’ Well,
when he met anyone around the Mielke and Maurer terri¬
tory, he usually would have a treat or a present for them.
George was a fellow that adjusted to white man’s superior
thinking very well. A hard worker, with a polite and gen¬
tle make-up, George never asked to be equal. However,
he took some abuse from a few southerners that settled in
the Bluestem, Rocklyn territory. For example:

Out in the Lake Creek country, an early settler by
the name of Grant invited my dad and his brother Char¬
ley over for a visit and dinner. George Adams happened
to horseback it over to the Kik place about the same time
the boys were leaving for the Grants’ homestead. They
asked the black lad to join them for a visit with the neigh¬
bors.

Homesteading news and cowboy talk with the
Grants went smoothly ’til supper time arrived. George
was told by Grant that he would have to eat out in the
kitchen. Uncle Charley was sort of a hot-head and
Grant’s statement caused his head to get hotter. He
grabbed Grant by the shirt collar and said, “If George isn’t
good enough to eat with us, we are leaving.” Then Char¬
ley shoved him off his feet. All visitation ceased because
the visitors walked out the door.

A friendship was lost, but stronger bonds were
gained between the three as they rode their horses back
to the starting point.

George’s boss Jack had a prized Jackass that helped

Early Day

Let’s turn back the calendar to 1902. That year in
the town of Norfolk, Nebraska, spring was too far away to
do any damage to the snow. Just the right time of the
year for folks in that mid western town to talk over their
expanding migrating urge.

A group, for reasons of its own, got antsy enough to
rent a railroad car to go farther west. Destination? Daven¬
port, Washington.

The human cargo included a 10 year old lad by the
name of Paul Maskenthine. Also his parents, three
brothers and a sister. The William Guhlke family, and the
Mateesn clan.

When that special car loaded with immigrants from
Nebraska pulled into Davenport, advanced settler and
scout Albert Guhlke was there with his bobsled to meet
them.

The new arrivals were sledded across the barren
wintery hills to the Bluestem General Store. For a treat,
Albert bought all the little ones a sack that was filled with
jaw breaking candy. The horses then pulled this sled full
of newcomers to Guhlke’s little house that stood on what
used to be prairie sod.

That night, Albert’s wife lined all the new arrivals
along the wall for sleeping purposes.

The next morning, Mr. Guhlke took the Masken-

make the mule population grow. George loved to work
with mules. He soon became known as the best mule
skinner north of Harrington. For years, running the farm
without George was a no-no. When the Adams estate
was in limbo, George took over the farm operations, and
also cared for a pasture full of cattle.

With his boss gone to his reward, George soon left
for the tall timber of Lincoln County. Milton Reinbold told
me that George found employment on his dad’s farm.
The family also found him to be a good worker, a nice
and gentle person. “He never lost his temper,” Milton
said. After five years with the Reinbolds, age put George
on the shelf.

Retirement found George living in an old house
down at Miles. He was a guy that never let money get
piled very high. When his welfare check arrived, he
would take a short walk to a small store, and treat all his
friends that were standing around to some beer. Before
returning to his little old house, George would lay in a
supply of victuals (vittles) that would last him ’til his next
life sustaining check arrived.

Before George’s death, dad wanted to be taken
down to Miles for a visit with his old Lake Creek pal. Rat¬
tling George’s half open door brought silence, so we
walked in. Windows were scarce in the old unpainted
room, making it hard to find dad’s old black friend. We
finally found him snoozing in a rocking chair next to a
blackened stove. His response was slow, but he recog¬
nized dad. He answered our questions with a smile. But it
disturbed dad, as he was just a shell of his former self.
About a year later, George was buried in a pauper’s grave
in Davenport.

Druggist

Anna and Paul Maskenthine at the beginning of their
married life.

thine tribe to Edwall, where they caught the Great North¬
ern to Odessa. To save a lot of walking, a delivery team
was hired to take them to relatives. They had already set
up a farm out in the sticks between Odessa and Wilbur.

When spring arrived, Paul’s dad, Herman, went
back to the Davenport area. Between Davenport and
Rocklyn Herman was able to find a disgruntled home¬
steader that didn’t mind selling out to him. This farmstead
came with four horses, and a wagon. Just what papa
Maskenthine needed to move his family back from Ode¬
ssa.

With the passing of time, Paul was able to go to
school in Davenport, and be available for a part time job.
About the same time, two brothers came to town, and
each opened up a drug store of their own. One was
known as bad seed Ben, the other as good seed Curley.
Paul got his first job after school at Ben’s place.

In those days, every student had to buy their own
school books and supplies. Selling books and exchanging
patented medicine for money, gave Paul his first experi¬
ence in the business world. He enjoyed waiting on
customers.

Finally Paul moseyed over to see Ed Imus, the ban¬
ker, about taking a pharmaceutical course. Imus told him
he was making a darn good move.

Paul’s drug store job at Ben’s came to a sudden end.
His boss didn’t walk a very straight and righteous path.
Prosecuting attorney, Pettijohn told Paul’s dad to get his
son out of there because they were going to raid the
store, and pick up Ben for bootlegging liquor to thirsty
customers.

Ben pleaded guilty when the law caught him red-
handed. For punishment, he was made to set in jail for
quite a while. After getting back into circulation, Ben sold
out and left town.

For Paul Maskenthine, it was a matter of transferring
himself over to Curley’s place as a part time druggist.

Curley did serve the early day community very well
with his friendly and likeable way of pleasing customers.
Some depended on Curley to keep them in good health.
Even to the extent of a little under the counter stuff. He
had a certain kind of slickness that didn’t cause him too
much sweat.

When World War One came to a settlement, Earl
Rambo, a high school classmate of Paul, opened up a
drug store down the street a ways. One day Earl came up
to Curley’s place and told Paul, “Say, I’d like to have you
work permanently for me down at my place.” Paul said,
“Oh I don’t know, I’m kind of a rancher, and you have all
this fancy town trade.” Earl insisted and got Paul to say,
“Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go out and harvest with dad,
then I will work for you.”

That fall about Lincoln County Fair time, Earl
Rambo was given license to operate a liquor department.
Every boozer had to have a liquor permit, which ended
all past shady deals.

It was the first day of the Fair when Paul went to
work. “I was literally fastened to the counter writing liquor
permits that day,” Paul told me.

When the liquor drinking guys tapered off to a less

In 1909 Paul’s dad, Herman, and John Buck took a trip to
Seattle and had their picture taken. It was sent back to their
families with a simple question asked, "We are In Seattle what
do you think of us?”

frantic flow, Paul stated, “I really liked it there. You were
up where you kinda met the people. High school kids
would come down at noon to get a doughnut at the bak¬
ery, then come in to the soda fountain side of the drug
store, and get a soda and talk about football and basket¬
ball and other goings on up at the school. It was like a
daily gathering of friends.”

Paul Maskenthine’s drug store sojourn lasted well
into the time when Germany took its last crack at trying to
lick the world. Paul gradually tapered off his long years as
a druggist, and farmer, when Everett Brooks took over
ownership of Rambo’s Drug Store.

The two sides of Paul’s life were busy ones. A spring
morning found him guiding a row of horses behind a seed¬
er. The next day he could be appearing behind a drug
store counter.

Paul’s farm life took him through all the evolutionary
stages of farm equipment. From the heading and thrash¬
ing outfits, on up to the modern combines. Punching
header at a young age, he had to match his skill with the
more weather beaten, mustachioed, seasoned crew.

It was a pleasure to get down to the nitty gritty of by
gone days with Paul the other day. Right after World War
One, events made it possible for him to marry Anna, his
sweetheart of many years. Their marriage brought forth
two country bred daughters, Eleanor and Irene.

When they were newlyweds, they had a helping
hand in that railroad drama, when Tanner’s bull butted
the eastbound passenger locomotive into the ditch. On
the way to church that morning, they picked up the en¬
gineer who was hitch hiking into Davenport.

We got to reminiscing about his dad, Herman, who
after surviving a bank failure, was able to hold on to land
he bought at inflated prices.

Some of the early day settlers took time out to help
build better roads. Wandering travelers didn’t like to cross
wide creeks, and canyons, so highway two went in every
direction on its way west. Parts of the straightening out
job was taken care of by the grandad of Judge Zellmer
and Paul’s father.

The two old timers built a bridge over the creek, so
the wagon wheels wouldn’t get wet or mire down. Then
they made an “S” grade to relieve horses from staining a
gut when they tried to pull their load out of the canyon
floor.

Telephone lines being built were like a chain reac¬
tion. When the line got to the Maskenthines’, another far¬
mer would nail two by fours onto the fence posts to hold
a single wire to his place. The ‘follow the leader’ line en¬
ded south of Rocklyn.

For four bucks a year from each telephone, a line ex¬
change lady was hired in Davenport. This made it possi¬
ble to tune in on settlers far beyond the horizon.

When I was getting ready to leave, Paul said, “I will
be 93 in August. After I retired, my wife and I enjoyed
this new home we built here in town. Anna loved flowers,
and she made our yard beautiful.’’When I got to the door
Paul stated, “I spent 57 years with Anna. She is gone
now.” He pointed to the center of the room and added,
“Anna used to sit in a chair over there, and we would
watch television together.”

It’s just a question of who goes first, and who is the
one left alone with memories. There is a recorded song
that sort of breaks me up: “Honey I Miss You So.” (At
this writing, Sept. 1986, Paul is very much alive at the
Davenport Nursing Home.)

Rocklyn Telford Rodeo

Recently I visited with a retired couple that love to
tour out-of-the way places. Their specialty is ghost towns,
and old mining holes that were dug out by obsessed men
looking for a quick cure from poverty. They figured that
forgotten wagon trails should be studied and written up.

I guess they are right. There are still heaps of things
worth recording right here in our back yard. For instance,
there were some events that took place years ago that
didn’t leave any artifacts laying around.

How many of you with wrinkled skins remember the
open space rodeo that was held in the middle of the vast
grazing lands of Lincoln County? It was in August and the
year was 1925. If you recall, it was a free rodeo. All the
riders collected were sore butts.

That summer, dad and I drove up from Calif, to see
if our renter raised any wheat. For a couple of Sundays, it
gave us the opportunity to watch the cowboys go sailing
through the air. This wild sort of stuff took place west of
Rocklyn and south of Telford. It was out on the old Janett
pasture.

Wade West was the foreman for the Janett brothers
pasture holdings. Wade rounded up all the cowboys and
bucking horses he could find. This made it possible for
the guys to have some cowboy fun and drink a little
moonshine whiskey.

That big pie-shaped oasis out in the middle of no¬
where was ideal for such goings-on. The rocks were miss¬

ing and the grass was soft enough to cradle a departed
cowboy that was on his way to a lower level. A small
house and a few sheds stood up along side a row of pas¬
ture bluffs. A ‘moonshine still’ was in hiding. Only Wade
West and some of his cowboy disciples knew where it
was.

That first advertised Sunday, right after the noon
hour, about 200 cars began coming in from a couple of
rutted trails. Guys with chaps on made us park our rigs on
the outside of this grassy flat. The old cars made a good
barrier to scare the frightened animals back to the bluffs.

Who attended this opening event? Well a lot of
neighbors, friends, strangers, grandparents, daddies and
quite a few mommies. A set of little twins were seen lay¬
ing in the back seat of a car. Their daddy, Oby Smith,
was one of the cowboys that helped retrieve riderless
horses that high tailed it over the bluffs.

In the middle of the bucking matches, deputy sheriffs
Cecil Fisher and ‘Dutch’ Van Hook drove up in a dusty
looking car. They snooped around for quite a while, but
didn’t find the liquor still. Later, they joined the large
crowd by sitting on car fenders, watching the horses try¬
ing to get rid of their passengers.

During intermission, some of the more worldly cow¬
boys formed a huddle and told some X-rated stories.
During the rest period, some of the riders strayed over to
the circle of cars for a visit, and to answer rodeo ques¬
tions. When recess ended, a couple of guys on horses

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Rocklyn-Telford Rodeo. Circle
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rode around fast like, kicking up dust. It was a signal for
the riders to get back to the corral for more fun and
punishment.

There was no squeeze like slot to sandwich the
bouncing broncos in for mounting. The riders used no
saddles. They just jumped on the nervous nags from the
side of the corral and tried to locate enough horse hair to
hold on to. Fortunately none of the cowboys got hurt. All
they had for first aid was a snake bite kit, and buckets of
water. No loud speakers to announce in a glorified way

who the riders were that fell off or stayed on. If you didn’t
know, word of mouth did the trick. •

Years later, when the Mielke brothers had the say-so
of this spread of pasture, I looked over that semi-wild
west bucking match spot of long ago. With the slugs of
people and the circle of old time cars all gone, it was a
mighty empty spot of grass. Cattle and horses still leave
the same kind of tracks as they did then. Generations of
livestock have chewed down that grassy flat hundreds of
times since those summer rodeo days of long ago.

Grange Days

Our space age country life has knocked some of the
steam out of the Grange. New type farm organizations
that are now busy helping farmers with their problems,
weren’t around 50 years ago.

After all these years, the Grange has failed to moder¬
nize their house rules. Still there are lots of dear friends
that love the pageantry of ritualism, and maybe that
should be considered. To me the secret order of the
Grange was out of date soon after old daddy Granger got
his Order organized. I go through the ritual workout with
a straight face, but I’ve been a hypocrite all during my 50
years of Grange life. I hope the Grange doesn’t throw me
out, as I would feel lonesome.

Sure a bouncer may be needed at the outer gate to
kick out the undesirables. Who knows? On rare occasion,
a wandering bum could sneak in, and disrupt the meet¬
ing. Except for military spy operations, the password has
lost its reason to survive.

By discarding the petty things, it all boils down to the
good the Grange has done. It has not only supplied the
majority of country entertainment in its hey day, it had
control over the farmers’ problems by voicing their opin¬
ions and doing something about it. For a long time,
Grange Co-ops purchasing muscle gave members a bet¬
ter price tag on things needed for farming. It’s still a very
practical, and handy place for farm supplies.

It was a surprise to me that Grangers in Southern
Calif, became quite active after I left that highly promoted
spot. Even old Walt Knott joined the Order. It was inter¬
esting to note that the Grange Sugar and I visited while
there, was made up of retired folks that were living off the
fat of their salted away income. So when meeting time
rolled around, there was no farm problems to discuss.
Time was mostly spent opening, and closing the meeting
so they could socialize. I was told that once in a while a
powerful speaker would come, and tell this group a lot of
things.

Anyone around my age can’t help but think back to
those old Grange hall days when dances, and other social
things were on the main calendar of events. Since
Grange dancing has now gone the way of the Edsels, a
lot of these well preserved Grange halls sound pretty emp¬
ty, except for some rambling around once or twice a
month by loyal Grange members.

To revive some of the Grange community activity of
the past, why not consider having your first or your next
wedding in a Grange hall? You can then have the coun¬
try atmosphere of a real farm like wedding.

But you will not be the first in the state to try out a
Grange wedding. According to the Wash. State Grange
records, Telford had the first. Well over 40 years ago, a
young immigrant from North Dakota, Jack Schneider
had a lot in common with a native lassie, Georgia Cabe.
When they developed a craving for each other, they
wanted to get married in the smoothest way possible. So
to eliminate the stress of city weddings, this youthful cou¬
ple picked the Wilson Grange hall.

They decided to free themselves of the headache of
who to invite to their wedding. So the mother of the fu¬
ture bride announced at Grange that everyone from far
and near was invited to come, and see her daughter get
married to this Dakota guy.

News soon spread like wildfire of the coming June
wedding. Home economic chairman, Maggie Knack beat
it up to the mountains to pick lots of Bridal Wreath flow¬
ers, while Sadie Maurer with excited helpers, dove in and
decorated the hall pretty like. Rev. Ernie Mitchel, a preach¬
er from Creston was rounded up.

Around 200 showed up for this bash. More volun¬
teers turned in their skills as the need arose. Hazel Hall’s
piano playing took over the wedding march, and other
musical sounds. Sugar, Devore Cabe, and the bride’s
mother Marie, sang out loud, ‘I Love You Truly.’ Elsie
Ganes stood on one side of the marrying couple, while
Harry Schneider stood on the other side.

When the preacher finished doing his legal stuff,
everybody congratulated the cotiple while self appointed
ushers moved the benches off the floor, so the wedding
dance could get started. Volunteer musicians made up
the orchestra. A feast like lunch was served, Grange
style.

Was the marriage a success? Well the union pro¬
duced four kids that gave them four grandchildren. Sev¬
eral years ago, we received this invitation: “A celebration
of love, joy and marriage is planned for the fortieth wed¬
ding anniversary of Jack and Georgia Schneider. Their
children and grandchildren invite you to celebrate with
them Your presence is gift enough.”

Memory Dancing

One morning when Sugar’s eyes popped open, in¬
stead of saying, “How’s my honey,” she told me she just
got through dreaming that she was dancing with Howard
Janett. Golly, it’s been ages since those old dances took
place. Sugar’s sub-conscious memory clock must be start¬
ing to recycle.

We used to dance our legs off about every Saturday
night. It all began when I introduced Sugar to the dance
floor. In those pre-war, war, and post-war days, nearly
every Grange hall kept their floors smeared with slippery
wax to help out those with lead feet.

As far as the rural district was concerned, commun¬
ity dancing was as American as apple pie. It was a roman¬
tic, and sometimes not such a romantic era, especially
when your heart throb chose to dance the last waltz with
a competitor. But for some of us that had found our
mates, it was a tuneful way to socialize with friends and
neighbors. Guess that’s why Sugar, the other night, got
to dreaming about one of her old dance partners. As a
young married teenager, it was a thrill to be accepted as
part of the established community.

Looking back, we did have a lot of fun. It was early
in Sugar’s new life when she and the Knack girls thought
it would be neat to throw a harvest dance at Telford. Arti¬
cles were taken out of barns like bales of hay, harnesses,
lanterns, saddles, and old wagon wheels. Those barn
yard articles were placed throughout the Grange hall. A
talented Grange orchestra from south of Wilbur supplied
a mixture of barn dance, and harvest moon music. Two
of the dance sponsors eventually married a couple of
ranch hands that attended that authentic barn dance.

During the hay-day of Grange dances, a lot of local
big name orchestras were playing throughout Lincoln
County. To the north and east of Davenport was the well
known Rux brothers orchestra, featuring the king of the
saxaphone, Virgil. The other orchestra working the
Grange circuit was the McDougals, with Jack hot on the
drums.

Sweet Music

One day while visiting along the halls of the Lincoln
Nursing Home in Davenport, familiar music from a saxo¬
phone started coming from the recreation area. It was the
sound of an old waltz that I used to dance to. I just had to
get closer, so the tune could penetrate my ears better.

Upon snooping around the corner, to my surprise, it
was Ross McDougal, one of the original members of the
now defunk but popular orchestra of long ago. It’s been
ages since I’ve, seen Ross, or danced to his music. I didn’t
know he was around anymore, as things do happen to a
lot of old acquaintances. I just figured that Virgil Rux was
the only active one left representing that old Rux-
McDougal orchestra.

That afternoon, Ross and his wife Leona were bring¬
ing back musical memories to a lot of retired citizens that
are now taking it very easy. A new generation nurse
thought the McDougal tunes were catchy, and some-

Not to be outdone, our own Rocklyn grown kid, Les
Welch got his start out here at Rocklyn by playing for the
neighborhood dance fans. Les had that something that
made his musical ability raise to the point where he orga¬
nized that well known Mom and Dads orchestra. He sold
recordings by the thousands, and got on national televi¬
sion by performing for the Hugh Downs show.

Then Les Welch’s career came to an end when sud¬
den death took him away. Rocklyn made a second stab
at trying to send another orchestra to national fame. The
Sterett-Robinson group got their start by playing for Wil¬
son Grange dances. But George and the Sterett brothers
decided to stay in the cattle business, so they let the road
to Nashville slide down the drain.

Then came the wave of local professional western
dancers. When Howard and Elizabeth Janett got through
training themselves to do those fancy steps, they had
Paul and Elizabeth Clark introduce those precise dance
numbers to us Rocklynites. They were aided by Bill and
Lydia Buck, and ‘Chief’ Van Skiver, and wife Nettie. It
was just a treat to get out of their way, and watch them
gracefully glide through those smooth numbers.

I quickly put together a noisy amplifying system, and
hooked it up to Howard’s old antique record player. For
learning purposes, we had it made. I could slow this
spring wound Victrola down so the puzzled ones could
catch up with the music, or bring the music to a complete
halt, so the rooky recruits could have time to untangle
their feet.

It’s been years since we lived those days. Seems like
dancing the way some of us knew it went out like a wet
cigar. Years ago, the old and the young mixed country
entertainment together. Then came the split. The Beatles
really started it. Young folks joined the loud music, and
did a lot of stationary wiggles instead of dancing. Some¬
how I miss those old dances. There was something about
that lively old music that made you want to go go go.
Then a sudden waltz was played, and you felt real
smooth like.

Of The Past

times sentimental. She couldn’t see why those pieces
aren’t played anymore. Well, the big time orchestra mu¬
sic got put on the shelf when the Beatles sort of initiated
the rock and roll type of noise.

During the real early days, most rural dances had to
settle for a fiddle player, and a piano accompanist. They
knew about a dozen tunes that were stored in their heads,
but when they released them through the bow, and piano
keys, all the tunes sounded about the same, with varying
degrees of speed.

When the days of the Guy Lombardos, and the
Glenn Millers type of music crept into the rural dance
halls, the frontier fiddlers gradually fell by the wayside.
They just could not put together all the necessary sounds
to make sweet music.

This gave Ross, and his farm bred friends a chance
to get going with those musical pieces played by big time

orchestras. Their first break came way before the back
waters wiped out the fertile farm valleys below Hawk
Creek Falls. At that time, Vincent Moore had a large or¬
chard that produced lots of eating apples. Vincent had
just finished building a large packing shed before apple
picking time. Mr. Moore thought his spacious new shed
would be a neat place to throw a public dance. It was his
way of dedicating the new building.

That event launched the newly born orchestra
featuring Virgil and Orville Rux, Ross and Jack McDou-
gal, and Viola, an eligible young lady that later became
Mrs. Orville Rux. The Hawk Creek Falls dance turned
out to be a big deal.

After a year, because of demand, this popular or¬
chestra divided itself into two groups, and was called the
Rux and the McDougal orchestras. Since Jack the drum¬
mer stayed with Ross, Harold Rux joined his brothers’
setup, and started drumming.

Many a Grange hall accessories (out houses,
woodsheds, etc.) were paid for by having these orche¬
stras play for their public dances. The Mondovi Grange
Hall was built from profits that those players drew. Teddy
Zeimantz stated that part of his young growing period was
spent sleeping on Grange benches while his parents
danced to the strains of sentimental waltzes, and fast
stepping tunes.

Virgil and Ross saxophones played out notes equal
to that of professionals. Especially when it came to those
moon waltzes. Their saxophones made a person dream
of a full moon, romance, and lots of roses.

Both orchestras had a neat habit of announcing mix¬
ers throughout the evening. All the men would line up on
one side of the Grance hall, while the ladies filled up the
opposite wall. When the orchestra got going, a fast stepp¬
ing rush to the center of the hall took place. Partner danc¬
ing began when contact was made. Usually a square
dance or two was thrown in to satisfy the old timers.

When it was time for the orchestra to turn itself off
for the night, Home Sweet Home generally was played.
Sometimes the tune of ‘After the ball was over, many a

Early Spokane

Like many of you, I was too late in arriving to know
what the Spokane entertainment world i#as like during
the gay nineties, and saloon days. It was in the early thir¬
ties that the entertainment world caught my adult way of
life. That was years before Sugar showed up on the
scene.

Spokane in those days was much different than it is
now. It was sort of a mini Las Vegas, minus the gambling
tables, big stage shows, and call girls. However, a red
light district was available for open trade. Raids usually
didn’t take place ’til the complaints piled up too high.

There were 13 theaters located in downtown Spo¬
kane. How many of you remember the Liberty, Band
Box, Granada, Empress, Ritz, Unique, Rex, Orpheum,
Post Street, etc? Only the State, and Fox were able to
survive the changing times.

hearts are aching,’ could be heard, which was appropri¬
ate for those few that got jilted.

Ross is retired now, but not his music. His saxo¬
phone cheers up a lot of people in rest homes. Virgil
stayed locally, and is actively engaged in museum work.
His interest helped make the Lincoln County Museum a
reality.

Nature has been kind to Ross, and Virgil. Neither
has lost their heavy shocks of hair that still require daily
combing. Both have retained the same good looks they
had when they were making music throughout the dance
halls in those fabulous 20s, and during the depression
days.

Entertainment

Except for the State, the few movie houses down¬
town are just small projection rooms. The Fox is now div¬
ided into three parts. Some outside shopping districts do
have newly built cinemas for those that want to get off
their TV chairs for a change in atmosphere.

The State Theater is older than it looks. It has a
stately history of lots of stately events, including the world
premiere showing of ‘Vision Quest’ a made in Spokane
picture. Although not an earth shaking movie, Spokane
does have the background for movie making.

The Fox was built on the eve of the depression, at a
cost of a million bucks. It was able to survive all through
the depression years. For many of us, it was where we
saw our first talking picture. The Fox handled the more
expensive traveling stage shows. Tobacco Road was one
of them. Although it is a classy theater, it projected Spo-

kane’s first pornography film in those no no days. A poli¬
ceman stood outside to see that only matured eyes were
allowed to go in.

When that large historic auditorium at Main and Post
was torn down just before the depression, Spokane’s
bright lights started to dim. Hard times started in by clos¬
ing the Orpheum’s doors. It was a dream theater, right
out of the past with its fancy 19th century styling. The
stage took care of the Pantages circuit, and other travel¬
ing vaudeville acts. The receivership didn’t want to spend
the money to take down the marquee sign of Mae West,
in “She Done Him Wrong.” That advertisement was left
hanging over the street for months.

The old Hippodrome Theater caved in too, but was
never able to revive itself. The Hippodrome wasn’t as
large as the Orpheum, but it had all the historic trimmings
of an old time theater. It was in a ghost like condition
when some revival minded evangelists moved into the
Hippodrome. They used it to warn anyone stopping in
that the world was in a heck of a shape. Later the cold
weather shut down their nightly free warning messages.
When spring came, it was torn down as a P.W.A. pro¬
ject.

At that time, the wheat price hadn’t raised much
from rock bottom. The bread and soup lines on the east
end of Spokane began stretching out real long. The un¬
employed took over a large vacant brewery, and named
it, ‘Hotel De Gink.”

Another theater, the Post Street bit the dust, but it
didn’t say shut as long as the Orpheum. It had the largest
stage ever built in Spokane, and also the tallest ceiling.
Three balconies graced the inside, one on top of the
other. It made a guy dizzy looking down from the top to
the stage.

At the height of the depression, between 1932 and
33, the Post Street managed to open again. Mainly be¬
cause the Post Street let its doors open to a burlesque cir¬
cuit. By showing two full length movies, and a risque
stage show for a matinee price of 15 cents, people came.
A charge of 25 cents caught the wealthy evening trade,
after the supper dishes were put away. Ironically when I
took in the 15 cent show, one of the feature pictures was
titled, “If I Had A Million,” starring Gary Cooper.

Around 1945, the Passion players from the Black
Hills of Spearfish, South Dakota, were able to stop over
and present the Passion Play. They found the Post Street
stage large enough to hold all the local extras, animals,
and the paraphernalia needed to put on that spectacular
religious story.

It was always a treat to treat close friends to their first
talking moving picture show. Some turned me down flat
for religious reasons. My folks never missed a Will Rogers
or a Shirley Temple picture. Country towns weren’t too
far behind Spokane in installing a ‘talkie.’ But Spokane’s
large screens, and stage shows captured locals when they
went out-on-the-town.

Honeymoon Days

A long time ago farmers had to creep before they
could walk. When 1939 rolled around, the price of wheat
had doubled itself from the rock bottom price in 1932.
Even with that 100 price raise, wheat was still selling for
less than a dollar. Yet a bushel of wheat bought more
stuff 46 years ago than it does now. In some ways far¬
mers that were broke then, were in much better shape
than the speculative farmers that are in debt today.

In those pre-war days, a lot of us farmers didn’t have
much money in our pockets, but it didn’t cost anything to
wait for better times. When 1942 showed up, wheat was
finally needed, and inflation stood still for a long period of
time, due to a government price freeze.

In 1939 when I was broke, I happened to develop a
strong desire to get married due to a good opportunity
that I was faced with. Not wanting to wait for my govern¬
ment allotment check to come, I borrowed $25 from my
brother-in-law so I could get my act going. That twenty
five bucks made a midnight elopement possible, also a
three day honeymoon, Spokane style. In those days, it
wasn’t the ‘in thing’ to shack up with a new found Sugar
to see if we were made for each other.

Since I spent time exploring Spokane during my sin¬
gle days, I knew it offered a girl that lived a sheltered life,
all the necessary entertainment to make her honeymoon
a memorable one. By handling the borrowed $25 just
right, I knew it could be done. That Justice of the Peace
and that poor man’s bridal suite at the Coeur d’Alene
Hotel took quite a chunk out of our spending money.
Our wedding picture came to 25 cents. Payless Drug

Store had a self-taking portrait booth, with a curtain for
privacy. When we thought that we looked just right, Su¬
gar pushed a button. After a happy hug or two, the pic¬
ture came out of a handy slot.

Our wedding dinner consisted of a brisk walk over to
the Washington Street Market, where a Dutchman and
his wife served a plate full of dinner, including soup, and
pie for 25 cents. There was a cover charge of five cents to
have a scoop of ice cream dumped on Sugar’s pie.

Since Sugar never saw a stage show, it was pure
luck that Sally Rand was in town, and performing on the
Orpheum stage during our honeymoon. Sally’s body,
and her bubble put on an artful show, for which she was
famous. The glitter and beautiful stage lighting, as well as
the loud music that the Orpheum’s orchestra blared out,
overwhelmed Sugar.

The next day was more of the same, except window
shopping was stretched out a little longer to take care of
our fantasies. On our last afternoon in Spokane, we cal¬
led on Sugar’s aunt Susie to see how she would react to
our sudden marriage. She didn’t give a darn what we did,
and told us to set down to a bowl of her Polish type of
potato soup.

After paying what we owed for the use of a hotel
room, I found out there was enough money left to buy a
box of smelly cigars. We took it for granted that we were
going to be shivaried when we got back to Rocklyn.
Guess it was just lots of luck, love and tender care that we
made a go of it for all these years.

4-H

Helping Sugar with her 4-H clubs throughout the
years, gave me a high. Kids are the best kind of people,
because everything you do for them is still new, and it’s
easy to make them happy. Besides you can act like a kid
with them, and enjoy the fun part of life.

It all began when we were fresh married. With the
aid of a brand new county extension agent, Alice Gimlin,
Sugar was able to start her first 4-H club. Lacking in ex¬
perience, her group did manage to make a lot of gooey
cookies, and helped in community paper drives and stuff
like that.

A few years later, with her second group, Sugar
didn’t giggle as much and was able to make a steady
successful 4-H leader. Being a flunky, I didn’t have to
advance so fast.

I think Sugar’s third group was one of the first to
camp out nature style down at Lake Roosevelt. It was on
a bare spot that later became Camp Na-Bor-Lee. Sure,
there was lots of sand, trees, and water, but that was all.
The back end of the truck held all the adventurous 4-H
girls that cared to go.

Night facilities included a pup tent where Sugar’s
and Betty Brown’s feet stuck out, and a large survival
canvas for the girls.

When Camp Na-Bor-Lee got organized, volunteer
minded workers made it look like a campsite. The sur¬
rounding 4-H clubs consolidated to hold an annual four
day blowout.

In the 1960s, Sugar and Betty Brown were the camp
cooks. Bob Draper, the instigator of this setup, supplied
all the portable equipment necessary to bring camping
out of the primitive stage. I posed as the life guard, and
beach entertainment guy.

Working with 4-H kids is a satisfying experience
that’s worth a guy’s time. It’s much easier than being a
parent, because when the kid’s outing time is over, it’s up
to the parents for continual daily guidance.

I probably never contributed much constructive
knowledge that the kids cared to soak up. I did enjoy
helping out with harmless ventures that the young folks
insisted on.

Wanting to do something adventurous one summer,
a group of returnees drooled to set up their club head¬
quarters on Na-Bor-Lee’s lonely island. The idea was
met with disapproval, but was never handed a complete
no no. More guts entered the young ladies’ systems when
the county agent’s daughter said she would join them on
their planned invasion of the island.

By pretending to have a good time with the row
boat, I was able to smuggle the girls’ paraphernalia, and
tent over from the mainland. The protection of nightfall
helped disguise what we were up to. A shallow but cold
water swim brought the girls across to their island retreat.

Sleep didn’t enter my mind that night. I kept thinking
those girls would forget to wake up in time to get across
for camp reveille. When daylight came, bless their hearts,
they swam back before the bugle tooted its waking up
camp notes.

Camp

They were allowed to keep their headquarters for
the duration. It turned out to be one of the most interest¬
ing places to visit, or sunbathe before swimming back.

Like all nicely run 4-H camps, constructive work
shops, and programs were always well arranged.

When afternoon play time arrived, it was fun having
the boys make their own racing rafts out of drift wood.
The final afternoon was when the big raft racing event
took place.

The boys got to pick their favorite camp girls as co¬
pilots to help them navigate their rafts to victory. Or to
help pick up the pieces if the raft deteriorated in the mid¬
dle of the bay. Even a battery operated sound system was
used so the spectators onshore could receive instant race
results.

Oh sure, there was some camp sadness. A couple of
youngsters developed homesickness. It’s a terrible dis¬
ease. I catch it easy, if I’m over 400 miles from home.
One 4-Her, I just had to take back when he thought more
of home than he did of Camp Na-Bor-Lee.

On the second day of camp life, I found my little
niece, Roberta standing in a zombie like pose. She came
very near caving in from homesickness. However, she
was able to sweat it out when I promised to check on her
folks, and see how her pet ducks were making out. Also
have her mother tell me the outcome of her favorite
weekly TV episode, so I could relay the story back to her.

Moving a truck load of kids back to their homes al¬
ways included an afternoon stop-over at Fort Spokane,
or Porcupine Bay. An extra bonus swim was then en¬
joyed, and the last crumbs of camp scraps were used as
food.

Our final 4-H days came to an end with the dispens¬
ing of our Jolly Joggers club. For health reasons, it was
something we all enjoyed. When the running craze set in,
it was not necessary to keep going. There are now oceans
of folks to run with. All in all, it was those 4-H days that
Sugar and I will always remember.

Between swims at Camp Na-Bor-Lee.

The last days of the 4-H Jolly Joggers.

Farming German Style

Barbara Olsen Chrisman, who lost her battle with
cancer, brought back some early 4-H memories. Sugar
was struggling along successfully with her first 4-H group
when Barbara returned from Germany. She was one of
the first teen age lassies eligible to make that exciting stay
in Germany under the International Farm Youth Ex¬
change program.

Barbara helped Sugar and her kids get their enter¬
tainment act going by appearing as the star feature out at
Telford. The Grange hall was packed with a mixture of
Grangers and non-Grangers.

Her collection of slides included rural family life,
scattered farm plots, and agriculture equipment. Just
what we needed to see if the Germans were ahead of us,
like the Japanese are now in making some better stuff.

Barbara’s dad, Bud, told me what a typical harvest

was like when his exchange daughter was there. Seems
like they made a lot of work out of harvesting their crops.
First they marched out to their plots, and bound the
standing wheat. Then they hauled the stuff back to their
villages, where barns with upper doors awaited the wheat
bundles.

The cut grain remained in protective custody ’til a
custom thrashing rig was set up by the barn, where bun¬
dles were tossed out of the upstairs door, and shoved into
the thrashing machine’s spinning cylinder.

Naturally this shelling job rendered the barns empty,
but not for long. All that fresh straw that got blown ar¬
ound was pitched back into the barn. The grains soon be¬
came flour so lots of bread could be eaten.

What also was puzzling ’til 1 asked, “Why don’t the
German farmers consolidate their farm plots by trading

back and forth with their neighbors? That way the field
machinery could turn around properly without throwing
dirt into the neighbor’s fields. Well, it seems like a lot of
those plots were kept segregated out of respect for their
ancestors who traditionally willed it to them.

Some day, a wilder generation will come along, and
common sense horse trading will take place. Fields will
then grow to a respectful size by putting all their eggs in
one basket. Who knows, some day they may even harv¬
est their crops right out in the open fields.

One would think that this style of farming is only ex¬
pected in certain European districts. But wait, when I was
still farming, a group of mini-farmers right out here in

Farm

Not long ago on the front page of the Sunday Spo¬
kesman-Review, an article entitled, “Farmers sow money
but reap debt.” With headlines like that, it could make
farmers feel unhappy when they stick seed wheat in the
ground, put expensive fertilizer in the soil, and spray all
kinds of high power stuff over crops.

The article does hold out hope for those farmers that
have their names on a deeded farm. They can have a
chance of reaping dough instead of debts. Also some of
us old landlords that can’t cut the mustard anymore, ain’t
necessarily reaping debts, even though our land invest¬
ments may only be paying 3 or 4 % in the form of rent
money.

But what’s in it for the young guy with a wife, and
maybe a kid or two who says, “Let me farm your land, as
I’ve got the ‘hots’ to be a farmer?” Here is the computer¬
ized dope for the ‘now’ generation: “The 1984 cost of
production for a 1,100 acre farm in Eastern Washington
winter wheat country is $195 an acre for wheat. With a
60-bushel-per-acre yield at $3.30 a bushel, the return is
$198 . . . But for the tenant farmer, subtract a third of the
crop for payment to the landlord, and that leaves $132
per acre gross income.” It doesn’t take a read out compu¬
ter to tell you that there is a loss of $63 per acre.

“Arithmetic is so frighteningly simple,” so says that
Sunday’s article. “Some highly efficient tenant farmers
manage to show a profit. But in some cases the profit ap¬
pears only on paper; in reality the farmers are losing
money.”

In my depression days of long ago, we didn’t have
computers to forecast our hopeless troubles, so we didn’t
have as much information to worry about.

For added cheerless news, consultant Allen Hatley
of Spokane, who manages farm property, stated, “If the
price of wheat falls to $2.80 a bushel, not an unreason¬
able possibility, given the current surplus, and Reagan ad¬
ministration’s goal of lowering support prices, the best
decision I could make is to put the land in grass, and not
even rent it.”

Some good may come by retiring our land back to

Harry Tracy Country, were using a much more primitive
style of farming than any European farmer would care to
go back to.

When spring came, these sincere earth people
would scatter handfuls of wheat on fertile spots of volca¬
nic ash. Come harvest time, a hand scythe was used to
whack the crop off. However, they did purchase some
modern plastic sheets to cover the wheat sheaves ’til
hand harvest took place.

I told this group of hand harvesters that I would save
them a planting job by not combining out my wheat field
corners. That year, when harvest time arrived, this clan
figured it was cheaper to find a job, and buy bakery made
bread.

Crisis

grass. It would give farmers time out to go down to Ritz-
ville and look and wait for those mountains of wheat to
disappear. When the horizon at Ritzville is back to level
again, it will be time to consider going back to farming
again. Just don’t panic! This is the third big farm crisis that
some of us have managed to live through.

We do have Tom Foley’s shoulder to cry on. He
knows a lot about a lot of things. After Foley’s talk in Da¬
venport, it was neat of him to hang around ’til the last dog
was hung. A group of us had a chance to visit with him.
In my hey-day, it was Walt Horan that helped brace us
farmers up during moments of severe crisis.

This squeeze we are going through now can help
make better farm managers, and less gambling on the
prospects of never ending prosperity. Until the farm crisis
has passed, some farmers may have to recycle their farm
machinery. That’s what old timers did when times got
tough. Some of us went out to the pasture and revived
old discarded drills, and stripped castaway combines of
their valuables.

When the 1931 farm crisis hit, the government had
not even started to develop the habit of jacking up the de¬
stitute farmers. Those early brave ones that traded their
horses in for tractors were discriminated against. I could
not get a loan because most of my loan money would
have gone for tractor fuel. My neighbors with their barns
full of hay for horse fuel could get small loans.

Most of the borrowed money the horse farmers re¬
ceived went to keeping them alive, while the tractor far¬
mers were left to starve. Only fate saved the flat broke
horseless farmer.

One gloomy day, 56 years ago, my tractor was
grounded from lack of fuel. Orlin Maurer knew about my
plight, so while I was waiting for the oil company to trust
me, he stopped in and said, “This morning I saw Charley
Rux carrying a can of gas out to his tractor. I wonder how
long he can afford that.” Then to rub things in a little dee¬
per, Orlin continued, “My horses can work on empty sto¬
machs. All they need is a lot of hay when they get back to
the barn, ha-ha.”

Dust Of Wrath

For the last 40 years, most wheat fields held bounti¬
ful crops. But our County didn’t always look like a garden
of Eden. It went through an era like John Ford so vividly
told in his dust bowl story “Grapes of Wrath.” Our historic
low point in the Big Bend Country should have been called
“Dust of Wrath.”

Fast traveling winds that went by here over 50 years
ago (1931) blew so hard that a lot of Odessa’s airborne
soil landed at Rocklyn, and layers of neighboring farms
landed up on the Indian Reservation. Some Indians start¬
ing cussing the white man for disturbing nature’s garden of
flowers, grass and sagebrush.

Yes thousands of acres qualified for Washington’s
“Dust Bowl.” The main event took place in the Ritzville-
Odessa area. It left a trail of sand buried fences as far
north as Lake Creek, and east to the edge of Davenport.
Foot burners were used to try and stop the drifting soil,
only to find sand filled furrows for their reward. Many a
farmer got to see what the next six inches of soil looked
like.

My mother’s geese never knew a thing about flying,
but were able to use the wind successfully for a tail-end-
take-off that landed them safely down at the creek.

Dreams of German sausage vanished when our newly
purchased little piggies got lost forever in that dust storm.
If St. Helens had blown its stack then, very few farmers
around Odessa would have known about it. Between
storms scoop shovels were used to clean out the field fil¬
tered dust from lots of homes that had rickety doors and
rattling window panes.

After the blown out crops got reseeded there weren’t
enough days left, or moisture to get yields into the double
digit figure. Yields made from Russian thistles to eight bu¬
shels an acre. It caused my dad’s renter on the Lake
Creek place to go back to moonshining, and it caused me
to go out to Dave Stelzer’s junk pile and strip a discarded
combine for transplants. Such emergency methods made
it possible for an ancient combine to cut a puny stand of
wheat.

Except for the love of farming, those days were no
bowl of cherries. Rock bottom wheat prices started the
year before, adding insult to injury. The thought of get¬
ting kicked off the environmental nest like they did in
‘Grapes of Wrath” was enough to make a person cry. A
lot of us felt lucky that we didn’t have to join the bread
lines in those depressed days.

Good Samaritan

Who was the good guy of long ago that couldn’t
stand seeing some of his farm friends going down the
drain? It was Fred Reinbold. During the darkest days of
that great depression, Fred was the local manager of an
oil company in Davenport.

Ed Kruger, Lynn Gunning, and myself ran out of
money at about the same time. We had every reason to
walk off our farms, and join the soup lines, but that sound¬
ed distasteful to us, so we learned to live from one crisis

to the next. The final blow came when no gaoline got to
our farms unless it was paid for. Without fossil fuel, we
could not produce wheat that nobody wanted.

Fred Reinbold called up on a Monday morning, stat¬
ing he was bringing his boss out to try and convince him
we were farmers that some day would pay for stuff like
gasoline and oil.

I was topless when I approached the oil executive’s

car. Fred’s boss looked me over, and asked, “Did you
have to hock your shirt to keep alive?” Upon leaving, I
remember Fred saying to his boss, “All Walt needs is a
little more gas ’til fall.”

After the empty report I gave Fred and his boss, they
drove over to Ed Kruger’s farm, then back to Lynn Gun¬
ning’s place for more monetary evaluations.

Little did we know at that time that Fred’s boss
turned thumbs down on extending more gasoline credit
to us. Before any gas was allowed to leave in our direc¬
tion, Fred had to sign a note. By so doing, he put his own
pay check on the line as security for three helpless far¬
mers.

In those pre-diesel days, gas was delivered in a
primitive way. Guy Canfield, a well known gas delivery
man, worked at Fred’s plant. He would back up the com¬
pany’s pint size truck to fill my six 55 gallon barrels.

The tank on the truck had a short unloading faucet
sticking out. A long rod that held a slug of rings was bolt¬
ed on the back bed. Counting the gallons was done
Chinese style. Everytime a five gallon bucket was filled,
Guy would slide one of those rings over to the other side
of the truck. Then he would dump the bucket that was
loaded with gasoline into the barrels.

When the barrels were filled, Guy would then count
the rings that were moved across the rod, and multiply
that number by five. The final penciled in figures were the
number of gallons delivered.

Later, through the process of mental evolution, Mr.
Canfield figured out how to measure delivered gallons
more easily. He notched gallon markings on a stick that
was a little longer than the barrels.

Mamouth combine and Rev. Williamson, wheat hauler
standing alongside of a huge wheat truck - massive machinery
wasn't around when I was farming.

Buckets of gasoline could then be emptied without
counting. It was a simple matter of sticking the marked
stick into each barrel. The wetness would show the num¬
ber of gallons that got dumped.

This marked advancement, brought forth a more ac¬
curate gallon count. Because sometime while visiting,
Guy would forget to slide a ring across.

One Farmer’s Crisis

Sometimes when I’m in Odessa, I can’t help but
think of my cousin, Ed Kiesz. He farmed in the heart of
the old Russian thistle country near Batum. In those early
days, Ed used to say, “It takes more faith than guts to
farm out there.”

As time passed, better farm methods, and a few ex¬
tra thunderstorms made it possible for Ed and his family
to move to the residential district in Odessa. He then be¬
gan to enjoy semi-retirement with the rest of the Germans
from Russia that had already reached their material gains.

When the Ed Kieszes got citified, Sugar and I went
down to see how they were making out. To get the full
effects of a typical Sunday in Odessa, we attended the
whole works that was going on inside the Congregational
church.

We were surprised to see Ed teaching the adult Sun¬
day School class. With his sense of humor, we became
interested in seeing how he was making out. After all,
Sunday School usually is a place to work over some seri¬
ous Bible thoughts.

The class was discussing a well known Biblical per¬
son. Some figured this certain guy was wishy-washy. Fin¬
ally Ed ended the discussion by saying, “No he wasn’t
that kind of a bird. He was a man of strong faith, even

though he may have sounded a little wobbly at times.”

Before the services, I asked Ed how he made out
when he taught Sunday School, “Oh I give all those Bible
characters a lot of credit for what they did. When things
get a little hairy, I sort of let the rest of the class figure
things out.”

For those early Odessians, it was no easy chore to
reach their fulfillment. The depression of the early thirties
wasn’t very kind to the Ritzvile-Odessa farmers. They had
a harder time scratching for a living than us northerners
did. Ed Kiesz told us once that even the birds had to
lower themselves on their knees to look for food.

No crops, meant no straw. To keep their horses sto¬
machs from collapsing, my other cousin Gottlieb had to
make mercy trips up to Lords Valley where straw was be¬
ing sold.

With cupboards as bare as their fields, most of the
dust bowl farmers beat it to the apple country, where the
pickings were better. When apple picking money got into
their pockets, they returned back home, and started
dreaming of better farming days.

The season of 1931, Ed Kiesz didn’t have to follow
Odessa’s fall migration to the apple country. He had mar-

ried into the Raugust clan. One of them, Rudolph Rau-
gust got out of the Odessa area before the dust storms hit,
and took up farming north of Davenport.

When Ed got his two and a half bushel per acre crop
scooped up, he kissed his wife Bertha, and kids good¬
bye, and drove his two door Model T Ford Sedan into
Odessa. He told Bill Raugust who was running the Ode¬
ssa Trading Company, that he could come out to the
ranch and get those drills, as he had no dough to pay for
them.

Needing survival money, Ed headed northwest to
Davenport, and to his wife’s relative’s farm. He then
made himself available to sew all the sacks that got filled
on Rudy Raugust’s combine.

It was a hot August Sunday when Ed stopped in to
spend his first Davenport day of rest with us. Due to being

broke, Ed Kiesz’s personality spark was missing. He
looked tired. He told about the harvest job he got up here
where the land was blessed. Ed said he didn’t want to
know ’til the next week whether the Trading Company
would extend his debts.

Ed tried to take a nap on the floor. All at once he
jumped up and called Bill Raugust, and asked, “Say, by
golly, are you going to let me keep those drills, so I can
farm?”

The way Ed started to wisecrack on the phone, we
could tell he was getting a 12 month reprieve on part of
his farm machinery. When Ed hung up, he said, “Won¬
der of wonders, dam, 1 feel good! Let me take you all for
a ride in my Model T. It’s all gassed up and is almost dust
proof.”

Sister, Ed Klesz, me and mother, blocking the view of Ed's dust bowl limousine (1931).

Go West Young Man

It’s still kind of hard to shake off old rural school stor¬
ies, especially after visiting with Harry Schneider. Harry
and I just made it through the eighth grade and were able
to survive. Our lack of education made us aware of what
we didn’t know, and made us appreciate what we
learned afterwards.

Harry was a product of the depression days. A
handsome young lad who came from the plains of Ca¬
nada and North Dakota, where he learned to sing a lot of
prairie songs. There was lots of room back there on those
wind swept farms for parents to raise lots of kids, but to
grow enough food to feed them during those drought
years of the 1930s was a problem

One by one lots of young guys left the Dakotas for
Washington with the hopes of finding farm work. One of
Harry’s brothers, Jack, had beat it in a westerly direction
on a bicycle ’til he found a haven here at Reardan. Later
Harry decided to follow his brother via the railroad tracks
where box cars served as fresh air transportation to the
Inland Empire. He took with him his wealth in the form of
a twenty dollar bill, and used the sole of one of his shoes
as a safety deposit box for that Federal Reserve Note. It
was to be used only in an extreme emergency. His loose
change of 75 cents lay scattered around in a pocket.

When Harry jumped off the freight train out here,
every cent was accounted for. His hungry looks got him

here free of charge. Landing in a strange territory took
some getting used to for this shy young fellow. Befrien¬
ded by the Rudolph Raugust family, he was helped from
getting too homesick. After earning some money, Harry
was able to buy a guitar and other things that a young
man in the west should have.

Taking newcomer Schneider for an outing in Spo¬
kane proved to be fun. He enjoyed window shopping
when he saw an array of musical instruments or some
snappy western displays. Dad treated him to all the milk
shakes he could hold. I don’t remember for sure how
many shakes he drank, but at 15 cents a crack it was
starting to add up. The milk shakes kept Harry in a nour¬
ished condition all during the movie we attended.

The scab rock lands of Rocklyn was where Harry
shone the brightest. Working for Frank Selde, the Ol-
ighers, and other cattle ranchers fulfilled his dreams of the
west. In his spare time he had the challenge of stopping
an outlaw horse named Tracy from tossing him in the air.
Quite a conquest, for Tracy wouldn’t allow anyone but
Harry to sit on his back. Finally Tracy was sold to the US
Cavalry, and probably was used only as a riderless horse
in funeral parades.

Harry’s singing voice did go public for a while. He

placed first in an amateur contest at the Orpheum
Theater. His performance landed him a job at the Coeur
d’Alene Hotel’s Dutch Mill, ’til work out at Rocklyn beck¬
oned him back.

While working on the John Oligher cattle ranch dur¬
ing daylight time, Harry was able to make use of his
sleepy time hours for a while. He got a night time job on
the building of the Mondovi elevator. The elevator got
built to its proper height before burn out set in.

Things got going for Harry ever since those days of
establishing himself. Seems like he was able to cross over
a lot of thin ice safely. He is now the main farm owner in
the center of Rocklyn, and the surrounding territory. A
local farmer’s daughter fell for Harry. It was ditto for him
too. Then a marriage took place between Harry and Marj
Knack, and the two raised a typical family.

Mr. Schneider’s love for cattle still exists, and now he
has oodles of pasture land. A lot of his farm holdings are
under irrigation^ supplying choice feed for all those ani¬
mals that some day will land in meat eaters’ plates. In
partners with his son, Sam, it takes four combines to
harvest their crops. Harry is starting his retirement pro¬
cess by getting rid of his insurance agency at Reardan. All
this is quite a record for a box car kid from North Dakota.

The Year Of The Lakes

It may be scary to think about it, but this semi-arrid
country can have screwed up weather patterns. 1948
was a year to remember. Spring was nearly over when
attacking thunder heads brought waves of water bearing
clouds that emptied themselves for days. It caused havoc
for the rest of the year. Farm equipment was getting stuck
all during the last half of the growing season. Combines
did the same thing in August. The Mielke brothers sank a
large tractor in June when they hadn’t learned to stay
away from soft spots.

The first part of May, before the invasion of heavy
rains, everything was calm west of Davenport. Winter
wheat was standing tall. Farmers were busy plowing or
working their dusty summerfallow fields.

May 15th was on a Saturday, so I parked my tractor
in a low spot in the field so crooks wouldn’t be able to find
it for stripping purposes. The following Monday, inches
of rain came down so fast on the summerfallow that it
couldn’t hold it all. The torrent buried my tractor, and
plows in four and a half feet of sky water.

Not having the buoyancy of Noah’s Ark, only the
steering wheel and fenders were sticking out of that over¬
night made lake. A near shoulder high wading job had to
be done in order to hook a long pull chain to the tractor.
Howard Janett came to the rescue by placing his tractor
on not too solid ground. His Cat had to dig five cat track
holes in different places in the process of dragging my
tractor up to the shoreline.

This was a pretty lake that the rain storms made. On
the east shoreline, the clean summerfallow ran into the
lake. On the other side, standing wheat rose out of this
body of water and extended up over a slope.

There was 80 acres in that field that never made it
into summerfallow that year. Out here at Rocklyn, the
month of May recorded 9.60 inches of rainfall. A drier
streak hit Davenport where 8.71 inches of rain fell in
May. By taking Davenport’s lower figure, more rain fell
that month than fell in the whole year of 1929, when na¬
ture left only 7.30 inches of rain.

That year of instant lakes, rainfall tried to taper off by
just dumping 3.01 inches in June. However, lakes in the
fields stayed around, and took up farming space ’til the
next year, when the year’s moisture was less than 10 in¬
ches.

The summer of 1948 was long remembered. Sugar
and 1 had no logical reasons to seek out lake resorts, as
we had our own lakes. We did miss the sights of friendly
bathers. But it was a novelty to park the combine near the
waters edge, and take a shallow swim before devouring
our harvest lunch in the shadow of the self-propel.

One soon learned not to combine too close to those
freshly made lakes that didn’t have thousands of years to
develop a decent shoreline. Tempting looking wheat
heads caused P. H. Janett to drive his combine too close
to the waters’ edge. He did a good job of miring his self-

propel harvester to a hopeless depth. Albert Stuckle’s
tractor got it out, but not without bending the harvester’s
drive wheel axles.

The new generation farmers figured it must have
been a year of high yields. It was no such thing! In those
days, there was no fertilizer laying around to dump on
those rain soaked fields. The wheat roots didn’t even
bother about going down with the surplus water that was
loaded with leached nitrogen. In fact, the roots just
stayed near the moisture laden surface where it was
warm and comfortable.

What was the total rainfall here at Rocklyn’s Inde¬
pendent Weather Research Dept, for 1948? The record
book shows that 27.04 inches had been dumped out of
our leak proof rain gauge during that stormy year.

Mothballing Combines

The damp standing stubble is now giving off the
smell of fall. For you that are now ready to store your
faithful combine or combines; a feeling that another
growing season has been taken care of, undoubtedly has
entered your mind. It’s like the words to an old song:
“Harvest days are over, Jessie dear”. Jessie must have
been someone’s harvest moon sweetheart.

There are two ways of mothballing the combine for
that long storage season. One is to leave it to nature for
protection, like some farmers do. However it does re¬
quire some instructions to follow. For instance, when the
last swath has been gobbled up, look for a spot around
the farmstead with soil deep enough so the combine
won’t mire down when spring thaw sets in. Be sure the
spot chosen is located so you won’t run into the machine
on some dark night. Take the ignition key out and put it
somewhere where you might remember where it is the
day or two before next harvest.

Usually when the last grain stalk has been beheaded
by the combine, those outside storage type farmers gen¬
erally don't let the separator bounce itself empty. Some
gas is saved by so doing. The other benefit is that it does
leave enough straw sticking out both ends of the harves¬
ter. This helps keep some of the winter snows from drift¬
ing in on the chaff filled sieves, and straw walkers.

A good rain will sprout the scattered wheat that rode
the combine all during harvest. The growing seedlings
will give the machine a greenish look as they try to protect
the combine from the sun. If the combine is properly
parked far enough away from the house, you will not

Ceremonial day - storing the combine.

have to smell the barn yard like odor when the straw and
sprouted wheat starts to decay.

Properly preparing the combine for storage should
become some sort of a ritual. If done correctly, a feeling
of nostalgia will sweep over you. Pick a day when the
wind is real quiet, and the sun has that stingy fall feeling
when it hits the outside part of your skin. Tarry for a bit
while looking out over the stubble fields. You will then re¬
alize your part of the job is done. Think for another mo¬
ment, who will eventually eat all that wheat out there in
those mountains of plastic covered piles? Will it be the
Chinese, or a lot of Russians?

When the thinking time is over, make one last tour
around the combine. This time with pencil and paper in
hand. Write down any injuries that need attending to be¬
fore next harvest. Place the note in an envelope, then put
it in the tool box. The prescription letter will come in
handy at repair time.

When dad was here on his harvest jaunts from Cali¬
fornia, Sugar would think we were having burial services
for the combine instead of just storing it. Guess it seemed
a little odd to make a ceremony out of it, but that’s the
way dad and I operated.

While I was giving the self-propel the air pressure
and water bath treament, dad would be writing diary like
articles on the side of the bulk tank. He would pencil in
his feelings of another harvest that had just ended. Also
his thankful thoughts of being able to spend another sum¬
mer with his family. Later his notes were always var¬
nished over to preserve them ’til the combine was put out
to pasture or sold.

Finally the shed doors were opened to the limit.
With dad’s hands signaling the right directions, it was a
cinch to back the combine into just the right place. That
usually concluded the services of putting the combine
away.

This article on how to store combines brought out
some interesting results. I was informed that one old
combine that was left naked in the farmer’s yard, wasn’t
that farmer’s idea of proper storage. It happened to have
been a trade-in. Due to its advanced age, the machine

The Ice IV

Once upon a time, there lived a little known settler,
and his wife of long standing. They located themselves
down in a hole between the Maskenthine estate and the
farm that made me happy for all these years.

Wood Hulbert was his name. He was a cynical athe¬
ist who liked to argue. However, he was a man of some
faith. He believed that the copper bracelet he wore was
sucking out a lot of his arthritic pains.

Since it rains on the just and the unjust, his wheat
fields yielded the same as his more righteous neighbors
did.

Because bis farm was small, it held a small field, a
small pasture; and a small number of cattle. With luck,
Wood was able to scratch out a living.

But he was rich in dogs. He owned an advancing

company figured it would make their display lot look like
a grave yard for old harvesters, so they left it out at the
ranch.

Lucille McCaffery called me up and said her late
husband Eddy had what she believed to be the most ex¬
pensive storage place ever used for combines. The stor¬
age facilities and landscaping cost 13 million dollars!

Luckily it was built by the government who seems to
do things in a big way. The defense department wanted a
chamber huge enough to point a missile at Russia, so
McCaffery’s farm was chosen. When the government fi¬
gured they had a better way to scare the Russians, they
sold their storage place at a much reduced price to the
McCafferys.

Since it was too spacious a place just for storing
Eddy’s self-propel, he let his neighbors place their com¬
bines in this huge underground silo. A total of four
harvesters were found hibernating in this elaborate and
protective winter home.

Talking to Lucille got me thinking. By golly, her hus¬
band Eddy had farmers beat by a mile when it came to
bedding down machinery between working seasons. To
protect the paint on his combine, waxing and polishing
the machine was as necessary as replacing a broken
sprocket. To Eddy, his machinery had to look like it had
lots of love and tender care. Except for using a different
brand of wax, his son Tom is following in his footsteps.

Speaking about the trouble some farmers go to
when it comes to making a storage place for their com¬
bines, a retired farmer at the Ritzville Fair Saturday, told
me how he rimmed out a place in his barn where the
horses used to stand during feeding time. The height bet¬
ween horses and combines were considerable. So rather
than try the hercules attempt to raise the barn off the
foundation, he dug a trench at the entrance deep enough
to bob the combine into this shelter. It was done without
knocking off elevators and other essential things.

Since combines are used only about 20 days out of a
year, it makes them the most expensive piece of machin¬
ery to store. Maybe some day it will be more practical just
to have a self inflated plastic bubble wobbling over com¬
bines.

n Cometh

army of dogs. These ruffians would come charging over
the hill at anyone who dared to make their way to the
Hulberts.

In his later years, Hulbert became sort of a gloom
and doom guy. He predicted that those Odessa dust
storms would wipe out all of the Big Bend Country. He
used to say, “They should never have broken out all this
land. This country was made for cattle.”

When Mr. Hulbert waj full of fire, and at his high
point in life, he opened up a one man industry. Ice farm¬
ing! It was made to order for him. A spring-fed pond was
already there.

All winter long this pond was producing ice that went
to waste when spring came. By installing a high dam,
beaver style, Hulbert was put into an enterprising busi-

ness.

Harvesting ice didn’t require much of an investment
for Wood. His scattered odds and ends were easy to con¬
vert over to putting up ice. Wood’s harvest machine was
his arm muscles. They supplied the power to his long
jagged ice saw. A bobsled served as transportation for
storing ice on the farm. A discarded shed, and lots of
sawdust kept the ice from disappearing.

In the early days, Davenport never did like warm
beer, or meat that was ripening too fast. This gave Mr.
Hulbert a chance to monopolize the ice market. Price
wise, seasonal highs were reached in July and August.
When it got cold, the ice market hit bottom.

On hot days, old Wood Hulbert did enjoy a cooling
ride into town with his wagon load of ice. However, like
cattle, some shrinkage took place in transportation.

The Reluctant Harvester

Years ago, the northwest won the honor of manu¬
facturing a combine harvester that tested the patience of a
saint. In Idaho, some guys got out their pencils, and fi¬
gured out how to build a combine on a beefed up header
frame.

To make their brainstorm come true, these guys
hung on the following components: A cylinder, the length
of the header platform, was attached to flail out the grain
after the cut heads were laid back by the reel. A fanning
mill was placed behind the cyclinder. The straw sort of
tumbled out in front of the horses’ faces. They were
chained behind to hitches. Their job was to push this out¬
fit like a header, instead of pulling it from up front.

Right over the ground powered drive wheel, a plat¬
form was placed for sacking purposes. Elevator cups
were installed to dump the thrashed wheat from the fan¬
ning mill type of separator into a sack that was hung there
by an alert sack sewer.

The only other guy besides the sack sewer on this
mechanical device, was a busy fellow doing a triple action
job. He drove all the horses that were hooked up on the
right and left sides of the driving platform. His legs strad¬
dled a heavy turning stick, and he sat on it like it was a
saddle. By bracing his legs on the standing platform and
twisting his butt right or left, this harvester was supposed
to turn.

Right in front of the driver’s nose was a long header
punching shaft that had to be lowered or raised for grain
height, whenever he had a hand free for usage.

Those proud inventors of the northwest were so ex¬
cited that they named their contraption, The Idaho
Harvester,’ in honor of the state in which it was built.

This pusher type rig was never field tested correctly
with live horse power. By pulling the rig from the back, it
made the combine plow into the ground. Also, it caused

The ill-fated “Idaho”combine.

great frustrations for the horses, and the driver when it
came to turning corners.

George Sweezy, a Rocklyn farmer got stuck by buy¬
ing one of those rigs. The community figured if anyone
could make the Idaho harvester operate successfully,
George could. After all, he was an ex-school teacher,
mayor of Rocklyn, and an all around smart guy.

Well, Sweezy did make the Idaho work in a half
assed fashion. He made it into a push-pull rig by hooking
some of the horses in front of the combine. The front
team kept the combine from being pushed into the
ground by the back team. Also the lead team was able to
make the combine turn corners correctly. (Catch the pic¬
ture?) It was the first and only combine ever built that
eventually required two teamsters.

George Sweezy’s land was level, and his soil had en¬
ough rocks in it to help the light bull wheel turn out power
for threshing purposes. However, Sweezy got sick of his
pain in the neck combine, and sold it to Wood Hulbert for
a give away price that even ‘small fry’ Wood could not
pass up.

Wood figured he had plenty of time to figure out
how to make this nearly new combine work successfully.
It gave him an opportunity to show those big wheel far¬
mers he could harvest his own crop without their help.

But, Mr. Hulbert didn’t have as much patience as he
thought he possessed. After addressing a lot of naughty
words to the combine, he parked the rig permanently
alongside of his well used trail to the highway. Every time
Wood went to town, he was reminded of the lemon he
bought.

Mechanics

In the early car days when guys like Henry Ford, and
other car makers put their products on the market, self-
taught mechanics began making their appearance around
Davenport. These know-how guys were available to go
from place to place fixing clunked out motors. Instead of
carrying a little black bag like doctors once did when mak¬
ing calls, these mobile mechanics carried a box of tools
that increased in size as their knowledge increased.

Motors that exploded gasoline for power were very
foreign to our ancestors. They did not know what a dis-
mangled motor with a lot of round holes was for, so nat¬
urally they were at a loss to what made the crankshaft
turn. The average settler did know how to use a monkey
wrench, providing the bolt heads were square.

As a kid, I remember why Hiram Maurer and Roy
Borck were such important persons around here when a
motor wouldn’t motorize. Hiram took a deep course in
mechanics, but Roy just happened to watch other smart
ones, and remembered what he saw. Both were equal in
fixing motors that gave out.

Rocklyn’s first mechanics were busy teaching new
owners of horseless carriages to remember to take care of
their new vehicles, and a few starting rules. When dad
became the legal owner of a model T Ford for the second
day, he forgot to turn the magneto switch on. After
nearly cranking his arm off, he called Hiram Maurer. In
no time Hiram had the switch turned on for.dad.

One of Roy Borck’s first mechanical calls for help
came from cattleman Gus Kruger. His model T Ford
wouldn’t budge from his barn yard. A gallon of oil took
care of the oil starved motor, but Roy’s oil treatment
didn’t help the burned out connecting rods any. Gus was
reminded to feed his model T a little oil once in a while.

These new breeds of mechanical guys were able to
handle most overhaul jobs with very few fatalities. They
proved their fixing abilities by over-tightening most motors,
to where it required a team of horses to drag the vehicles
to a start.

One of Davenport’s first independent mechanics that
dealt with the motorizing public was Cliff Palmer. The ear

ly 1920s were the days of wooden battery cases, and
tires that never saw a life span over 5,000 miles. Cliff’s all
wooden car repair clinic looked more like a reconditioned
blacksmith shop. Except the walls held all kinds of
wrenches that were shaped to fit motor bolts. A fire wiped
out this landmark, so Cliff hired out his mechanical skill to
contractors that began building the Coulee Dam.

In 1933 when Davenport was aging prematurely
from the depression a young lad landed in town by the
name of Paul Clark. This rooky mechanic found a job at
Hernas Chevrolet Garage.

After a spell, Paul created a desire to branch out on
his own. A partnership was formed when he embraced
Frank Reinbold. The two rented the Lewis building, and
grabbed a hold of the Case machinery agency. Soon
Paul’s skill as a mechanic outgrew their cramped quar-

This farmer couldn’t wait for powerful tractors to arrive.

A couple of early day lady swimmers from, Rocklyn, with part of their bare legs showing at a Medical Lake outing.

In the early days, some company Jarms around Harrington did things in a big way.

A sign on Ethel’s old mail route In Harry Tracy’s country.

What’s left of Grandpa’s dreams at Rocklyn.

Above: Sister Ethel receiving the mall carrier’s retirement
plaque from a Rocklyn patron.

Left MOM (Margaret)

Trying to make a cowboy out of me at the tender age of two. “Having fun on Rocklyn farm” was the

title given when twice a week Spokesman-Review was promoting farm stories.

The oldest to younges;
winners at LaCrosse run.

The modern deluxe version of feeding the harvest crew I
Lincoln County is the farmers wife’s ‘meals on wheels’ system

A couple of minutes before Mt. Saint Helen’s

ash fell on Rocklyn Zion Church.

ters. A venture was undertaken to build a combination
large modern shop, and machinery display building.

Upon completion, they qualified for the Caterpillar,
and John Deere dealership as well as holding onto the
Case line of farm equipment. A salesman was needed, so
the Clark-Reinbold set up formed a third party chain. For
a period of time, they had the largest farm machinery,
and shop business in Davenport. (The title still stands.)

The two original partners knew the farmers’ needs
quite well, and got scared when their new charged up
partner tried to sell farmers more machinery than they
cared to lug home. It was luck that these two sold out
their interest to a man with different ideas. Alone, with¬
out any shop or practical sales experience, it was easy
sailing for partner number three to go broke all by him¬
self.

This turn of events launched Paul Clark on a cater¬
ing type of mechanical service. He consolidated his tools,
and loaded them on a pick-up that was converted into a

mini mobile shop. In no time he was ready to make
house calls at the drop of his hat, and to administer on-
the-spot fix-em. Paul soon became known among far¬
mers as the ‘shade tree mechanic.’

Many a tractor and other farm power units through¬
out Lincoln County owe their lives to Paul Clark. This
popular traveling mechanic made breakdowns less stress¬
ful for his farm patrons by displaying his repair process,
whether it be under a shade tree, an open field, or in the
farmer’s shop.

In the spring of 1985 after 32 years of farm to farm
personal service, Paul handed over his wrenches, and
the traveling shop to Carl Thiringer who hopes to live up
to Paul’s unique service, and reputation. Paul and Eliza¬
beth are well known landmarks in the Davenport area.
They have launched three daughters successfully into the
world. Elizabeth, a Reinbold by bfrth, captured her love
for flowers, and other living things from her parents.
Usually you will find her down at the Davenport gardens.

Big Al’s Steam Engine

Dear Younger generation: All the farm work that
you see being done by tractors, was once done by horses.
Our granddaddies were forced to pound those old nags
on their tails, because that was the only way they knew
how to develop power for farming.

Big Al’s brains went to work. Dreams of plowing out his
newly acquired bunchgrass laden sod without using
horses entered his mind. After all, his steam engine was
just setting around with nothing to do ’til the next thrash¬
ing season.

Our forefathers weren’t cruel. One must remember;
Where in the world could they have found tractors, when
they were not invented yet? Still, there was an old timer
who tried real hard to use steam power for breaking sod.
But, his dreams were never realized.

It was Rocklyn’s well remembered strong man, A1
McMillan, who owned a large steam engine. His body
size, and strength put an average man to shame. With his
long arms and stooped body operating that mechanical
wonder, it was a sight to behold.

After many seasons of running this thrashing outfit,

Big Al’s blacksmith shop held scads of tools. It made
it easy for him to build a large coal tender, that fit snugly
behind his self propelled steam power plant. McMillan
also replaced the drive wheels with a pair of extra wide
ones that would make our tractor wheels of today look
small.

That fall, McMillan got so steamed up that he or¬
dered two carloads of coal, and had it docked at the
Rocklyn side tracks. His dreams of breaking out over 200
acres of sod was getting mighty close. His virgin land was
located next to the farm I’m sitting on now.

But, by the time Big Al’s wrenches got all the bugs
ironed out, it got too late for sod breaking. That same fall,
dad sold out and we left for our extended stay in Califor¬
nia. That ended any hope for us to witness Big Al’s horse¬
less plows in action.

Lo and behold, when spring came, A1 McMillan’s
land deal was challenged by the courts, causing all that
virgin land to stay virgin. But that didn’t stop Big Al’s
plans to find some sod to break out. According to Herb

Kruger, McMillan got ahold of some virgin ground north
of Keller Ferry. A1 must have said to himself, “Now I’m
going to get a chance to break out some land, and finally
I’ll have myself an extra farm.” It’s like Herb told me, ‘A1
was ahead of his time.”

When the count down took place to leave Rocklyn,
McMillan fired up his steam monster, and started his par¬
ade to Keller Ferry. By having no load except the coal
tender, his steam outfit averaged about 20 pounds of coal
per mile.Big A1 did get his steam engine guided down
that mountain side to Keller Ferry successfully. When he
got there, he found out that the cable ferry was not de¬
signed to hold steam engines of such strength and size.
Four model Ts, or eight tame horses, yes. But not that
steamy, hunk of smoking steel.

Big A1 had no choice but to start shoveling coal, and
engineering the steam giant back to Rocklyn. Again his
outfit started scaring the horses along the way, and cover¬
ing the countryside with smoke. Since steam engines ne¬
ver came with overdrives, it was a monotonous job both
ways.

When we moved back from California in the fall of
1927, things hadn’t worked out very well for A1 McMil¬
lan. It was a cold fall day in downtown Davenport when
dad ran across old Big Al. He had just gotten out of jail,
and was looking for a ride out to Rocklyn. He went broke
while we were gone, and took up moonshining as his last
enterprise. He had just finished paying his debt to society
when my dad brought him home.

Big Al was a broken man when he stayed overnight
with us. He was suffering from a bad case of the blues,
and kept going to sleep while we were trying to visit with
him.

As big and as scary as he looked, Mr. McMillan was
a kind man. He and his cook raised a couple of nieces
that were orphaned to marriageable size. One of them,
Angie, married our neighbor, Ben Hall.

For years, Big Al’s mobile steam power plant and
coal tender was left to rust away on the ground that is
now Gene Stuckle’s farmstead. No one seems to know
what happened to the mechanical wonder that tried so
hard to find a chance to turn over lots of virgin ground.

Davenport’s Distinguished Citizen

Charley Myers inherited a set of genes that kept him
active throughout his long life. No one could say he didn’t
live a full life as a pioneer, a family and business man,
and a politician. He took time out seasonally to spend
nearly sixty years as a rugged outdoorsman, hunting with
his political and business associates.

In the 1870s Ohio found Mr. Myers growing up tot¬
ing a muzzle loader shotgun. It was natural for him to be¬
come a hunter and to create a love for the wide open
spaces. A sort of teenage Daniel Boone of Ohio.

When Chalrey got big enough, he married his neigh¬
borhood sweetheart. He then developed a hankering for
the west. An excursion train special was headed for Wash¬
ington territory. He jumped on, leaving his bride to fol¬
low later, when extra money became available.

Upon landing in Davenport, Charley started walking
toward Fort Spokane by following the old military road.
Finally, a foot walking Myers came upon a blacksmith shop,
with a log cabin standing near by. A 10 by 12 foot leanto
was attached to it. Charley figured it was a good location
to start up a new life. He was able to rent this combination
log house and leanto for six bucks a month. He now had
a large part of frontier town, called Larene.

Myers took a stage coach back to Spokane and
bought nearly $90.00 worth of groceries. The small at¬
tached leanto then became a grocery store. From then on
fate was with this adventurer from Ohio. He and his fam¬
ily grew along with the growth of Lincoln County. Later a
large store and residence was built. When the boom town
of Larene started to crumble, Charley and family set up
stakes on a high hill overlooking Davenport. It was a
show place. I remember the rows of orchard trees trailing
down the side of the hill. Being a business man, he saw
the need for a watch and jewelry store in Davenport.
Charley also added an optometrist shop, so he could take
care of everyone that had punk eyes.

Charley kept himself informed on subjects of local
and national interest. He was fortified with Republican
convictions. This made his task for the State Senate race
an easy mark in those pre-Roosevelt days.

Senator Myers was what we would now call a con-

Senator Chas. E. Myers.

servationist. During our own dust bowl years, in the early
30s, Mr. Myers had something to do with getting seed
wheat loans during President Hoover’s dire years. After
he OK’d me, so I could pick up a loan down in Odessa,
the heart of the ‘blow land’, Charley turned and said,
“You know, it’s the invention of the Cheney rod-weeders
that got our lighter soils to blowing. Farmers were better
off leaving the summer fallow alone.” Most of us had to
take that chance as we needed to save all the moisture
possible. Eventually we did change to rough stubble mulch¬
ing, making weeding a safer operation.

When hard times got harder, the Red Cross shipped
in tons of rolled wheat in 100 pound bags. It was sup¬
posed to be distributed among farmers that were so broke
that their livestock was going without meals. Myers had
the job of handing out this free mercy feed. A carload was
shipped to the Rocklyn warehouse. A farmer that got
blown out of Odessa, settled here at Rocklyn so he could
start life all over again. Needing some Red Cross han¬
douts, he talked Charley into letting him have a wagon
load of this rolled wheat. What Charley didn’t know was
that this former dust bowl farmer came to the warehouse
with an old header box on his wagon, and filled it past the
danger point. When Bill Chapel pulled up for his just

A Tribute To

For me, the cream of the crop stories may be run¬
ning out. Time will tell. 1 may have to scrape the bottom
of the barrel. There’s bound to be some horse thief stories
to tell about, or a black sheep in the family that could be
written up in a glorified way. It would then show that our
community was a normal one.

There are some stories to be found in old newspap¬
ers that are authentic. Unreliable information can be
picked up from old rounders who would rather tell about
their early escapades than factual history.

Doing some hard thinking should bring back a lot of
memories to us old duffers. But does it bring back me¬
mories to everyone? Due to no fault of their own. a not
too rare an ailment can take away one’s inherited mental
ability, usually during the tail end of life.

A streak of sadness runs around inside of me when I
think how Alzheimers disease has taken our friend Earn¬
est Beieler out of circulation. He is under the caring eyes
of the Lincoln County Nursing Home, and is receiving
tender loving care from his wife Verna.

Earnest is one of the best historians left in our terri¬
tory. He was compiling old records and manuscripts
when he was stricken. Unless a cure can be found to re¬
light that projector in his mind, he will take with him for¬
ever the things he loved to share with others.

He has put together in a loose leaf book all the tools,
and antiques of the Beieler homestead. Each article is
well photographed, with detailed descriptions on how
each item was used, and interesting features about them.

I regret missing a tour a few years ago that Earnest
was going to take me on. It included his historical farm¬
stead and collections. Postponing for another date came
too late for Earnest to give me that ‘in gut’ feeling of his

share, the boxcar was bare. This made old Chapel’s hair
stand on end. That same day. word got back to town
about this hog overloading his wagon with welfare stuff.
Mr. Myers then sent out a written permission for Bill to
confiscate part of the Red Cross booty. Chapel then pulled
up alongside the parked header box and unloaded
enough of the rolled wheat to fill his Model T pickup to
the brim This legal, headerbox high-jacking saved Bill
Chapel’s chickens and pet pig from starvation.

Widowed, and his children long since having flown
the coop, Charley busied himself during the second
world war years, by being on the ration and draft boards.
When time put him in his 80s, Myers took time out to
write a book, “Memoirs of a Hunter.” It is tailored for all
outdoorsmen. This well preserved and neatly dressed fel¬
low continued to attend dances for all occasions. There
was a four generation span, when he danced with my sis¬
ter-in-law during a fair queen selection. That was the last
time I remember seeing this distinguished and community
minded old timer.

One of Charley Myer’s sons, Richard, who now lives
in Electric City, has shared interesting events with me of
his adventures during the last days of the farm horses,
and the Model A Ford era.

A Historian

Belief’s barn built in 1888. once held all of Earnest’s old
time collections, Inlcudlng the hand scythe.

first hand information. Records of the Beieler family and
their associates should some day be put down in book
form. It would capture the feeling of pioneer life north of
Davenport.

Mr. Beieler had the education that I sorely lacked. A
former school teacher, he was highly respected by his stu¬
dents. Earnest helped me by verifying some historical

facts about the pioneer story on our local Big Bend cattle¬
man. Barney Fitzpatrick.

Speaking of Barney, his granddaughter. Catharine
Kelly, has been supplying me with all the Will Rogers co¬
lumns I needed for my scrap book. I have also received
from her some valuable historical articles that she re¬
searched for me from coastal newspapers.

Oral Roberts

All Christians interested in mercenary TV faith
healers, should read a hard back book, entitled ’Give Me
That Prime-Time Religion,’ by Jerry Sholes, whose father
is an ordained Presbyterian minister. Mr. Sholes is still a
darn good Christian, despite getting his belly full of Oral
Roberts.

Jerry Sholes was Roberts’ television program writer,
and producer from 1975 to 79. Shock set in when he
found out how Oral operated his healing factor. Roberts’
production line is all equipped with a computerized cash

Oral Roberts ‘hot hand’ In action.

flow pattern that boggles the mind! A million dollar home
in Palm Springs, expensive cars, planes, and a high-rise
throne-like office. Oral now has dreams of completing a
huge hospital, so he can give his ‘hot’ healing hand a rest.

Mr. Roberts offered Jerry Sholes a substantial
amount of money if he wouldn’t publish his book, which
Oral admitted offering. When that failed, someone beat
Sholes up so badly in a Tulsa parking lot, that his face
had to have plastic surgery.

Oral Roberts doesn’t represent any particular religi¬
ous denomination except his own money making brand.
He did however get a lot of support by milking the smaller
churches that were knee-deep in fundamental beliefs.
Later for added prestige, and with the hope of getting a
hold of more dough, Oral joined the Methodist church.

A schemer like Oral Roberts would soon disappear if
addicted television Christians would go back to their local
churches on Sunday mornings. I’m sure every clear
thinking preacher would then say, Thank God!’

Let’s back up a bit to 33 years ago when Oral Ro¬
berts pitched his circus size healing tent on the outskirts of
Spokane. At that time. Oral Roberts hadn’t yet attained
his goal of luxury living, but he was working hard at it

Oral’s well organized machine did supply some en¬
tertainment. and tons of false hopes. Of course, the physi¬
cally incapacitated were sorted out before the healing
services. Identification numbers were just given to the se¬
lected ones, including a few that were pretty wobbly, but
could still respond to questions, and commands from
Oral Roberts. If you were too caved in, or a 100% wheel
chair patient, you were stored in an enclosed tent right
behind Roberts’ high-platform pulpit. This sad group was
of no physical use for Oral’s public demonstration. They
were later to receive some long range benefit after the
main show.

With all due respect for some innocent souls, it was
at times rather amusing. A sincere pioneer friend of
strong faith finally got his turn to receive Oral’s ‘quick fix.’
He had some stomach trouble that needed taken care of
by Robe rt s. His arm was in a sling from a harvest injury.
Oral, thinking he wanted his arm healed, instead of a sto¬
mach adjustment, grabbed his bandaged arm and raised
it high up in the air, and swung it around a bit as he said
some powerful demanding words. Oral then asked the
owner of the damaged arm if it didn’t feel better. He nod¬
ded a hypnotic yes and walked off the slanting glory path.

Later I found him outside of this miracle tent. He
was holding his bad arm with his good arm since it was
loaded with pain from being jerked out of its crutch-like
sling.

I then went back into the tent and mingled with the
ones that weren’t healed yet. Soon a couple of Oral Ro¬
berts’ security guards came up on both sides of me and

Mrs. Lavern Davis, radio entertainer for 11 years (Molly
O'Day), unable to speak above a whisper for five years. Sings
clearly after she Is prayed for.

literally self-propelled me out of the healing line. When
my feet were able to touch ground, they asked if I had a
healing permit card.

A dear friend that was stricken with leukemia, sat for
three nights in that chilly tent with her pastor. It took that
long before Roberts was able to place his hand on her
head. Weakened by the ordeal. Oral took from her the
last hope she had.

The Rocklyn pastor was asked to trace the fate of
three Spokane businessmen he knew that received the
‘hot hand’ healing treatment from Roberts. The minister’s
days of sleuthing ended rather quickly with the deaths of
the three Spokane men. One died in short order when
life sustaining medication was exchanged for Oral’s cruel
hoax. Without a doubt, Oral Roberts has caused a lot of
untimely deaths.

Roberts Fans Speak Up

I found out that I didn’t win any awards from the
Oral Roberts fans and that they believe in censorship. For
example: Editor: This letter is in regard to the article in
last week’s paper in “Kikbacks” by Walt Kik, titled,
“Healing hoaxes hath no mercy.”

I cannot see that the publisher and editor would
even allow such things to be put in the paper. To me it is
junk. “Tough not my anointed,” is what the Bible says—
the Bible is God’s word.

I never knew dear Oral Roberts had such friends as
Walk Kik and Jerry Sholes — my, it is so nice they speak
so well of him. But that’s the way the world does God’s
people—they do not want God’s work to go on.

Just remember this folks. God’s judgment is coming
one day, then it’s your turn.

I was also in that tent meeting that Walt tells about
and the power of God was great — 1 was healed of a
blood disorder that night and I praise God for that.

Oral Roberts has a personal line to God and he lives,
believes, and does what his God wants him to do, no
matter what the unbelievers think, write or say . . .

I will certainly pray for you that you will have better
judgment of what is allowed to be in the Davenport
Times.

(A lady from Edwall)

Questions And Answers

Here is a question that was sent to the Grand Coulee
Star newspaper: —Have you heard anything about an
amazing breakthrough in the fight against cancer?

Answer—Yes, and it’s exciting news, indeed.
Evangelist Oral Roberts has discovered the cause of can¬
cer. The disease has ‘a spiritual origin,’ revealed the Okla¬
homa miracle worker. “When the cells of our bodies get
out of spiritual order, they multiply and fill our bodies
with cancer.” Roberts told his television audience he was
promised by God, in a seven-hour revelation, there
would be a ‘supernatural break-through for cancer' at the
preacher’s City of Faith Research Center in Tulsa. His
plea for money to finish the research center brought in $5
million from public-spirited listeners.

Dr. James Winslow, Jr., chief executive officer of
City of Faith, has revealed the direction the research will
take. “The Bible talks about a state of sin—sometimes
called disorder—that is in the world,” he said. “We hap¬
pen to believe that God created the universe — he put
the order into it. He did not likely put the disorder into it.”

These revelations are the real breakthrough. They mean
that individuals and government can now stop providing
money to scientific charlatans who claim they are
attempting to find the cure for cancer in the laboratory.
How many millions have been squeezed out of frightened
suckers in the misguided belief that science can find the
cure for a disease that is a spiritual disorder? They might
as well throw away their money on research to eradicate
small pox, another disorder probably not put into the uni¬
verse by God.

It’s time to cut off this wasteful spending and put the
money where it will do some good. President Reagan re¬
cently put his finger on the problem when he said that
America’s enemy within is ‘modern-day secularism.’
Write your Congressmen and tell them you will render no
more unto Caesar for secular research. Then get out your
checkbook and send a donation to the man who has
God’s word that He will cure cancer. The life you save
may be your own.

An Undesirable Relative

I’ve been thinking back to those seven years that I
had to spend in southern California. In the 1920s that
part of the country wasn’t as overloaded as it is now. The
air was still air down there then, and people weren’t so
thick. Orange orchards had not been yanked out to make
room for freeways and monotonous rows of houses. In
those pre-Oral Roberts days, Aimee Semple McPherson

and her Angelus Temple were busy ruling the roost, ’til
she used up all her magic charms.

Before Aimee was arrested, and before her sensa¬
tional kidnapping trial, it was a big deal to drive over to
the Angelus Temple with relatives that were ‘gung-ho’ on
Aimee McPherson. The temple did make you feel like

you were in heaven. Blue sky with lots of clouds were
painted on the huge ceiling. Also angels were artfully
painted as floating around in various places. When the
band stopped banging away, Aimee in a white robe
would make her grand entrance by descending down an
open staircase that led to her throne-like pulpit. But it got
to be kinda boring watching Aimee heal the stuttering,
the deaf ones, and untangle a few contortionists.

When Aimee was at the height of her glory, my
dad’s brother-in-law, Emil Bell, and family were living in
Hermiston, Oregon. He thought he was designed to be
an evangelist. The bleak sagebrush hills of Hermiston
caused Emil to think of a better place to start his mission
of salvation. So he dumped my aunt and their two chil¬
dren permanently, and left for the fertile evangelistic soils
of southern California. On his way, he picked up a tune¬
ful singer who worked as a ‘starter’ just before Emil began
his arm swinging sermons.

Of all things! When Emil got to Los Angeles, he
thought he could get a job working for Aimee McPherson
as some sort of come-on preacher that could help herd
the stray ones into the Angelus Temple.

When Emil Bell realized he had to start from the bot¬
tom of that highly competitive evangelistic ladder, he
parked himself at our place. After cussing the world out in
general for being so wicked, Emil opened up a shop
downtown, and held some revival meetings.

It was luck that my dad’s brother-in-law got starved
out, and left for other towns where picking was easier.
There were just too many German Lutherans at Orange,
and they gave him a rough time. Emil was a schemer, a
womanizer, and a hypocrite.

After my inherited uncle left town, we as a family
could once again enjoy evening strolls through the Plaza.
A dandy place to meet friends and tourists. It was there
that dad and I got acquainted with three Civil War veter¬
ans. Their hobby was to impress anyone who cared to lis¬
ten to their Civil War tales.

When those old soldiers started piling up stories, dad
and I noticed that two of those brass-button veterans had
opposite viewpoints on how a certain battle was fought. It
got to where they disagreed so hotly that verbal insults
began flying back and forth. Finally they got up and star¬
ted poking each other with their canes. Their cane battle

didn’t last very long, because they ran out of breath from
all the excitement. Those two never came back to the
Plaza, thinking the other may be there.

The remaining veteran that stayed out of this ruckus,
kept coming back to the same park bench. He then had a
chance to tell his pet Civil War stories without being inter¬
rupted. He said the other two veterans were a couple of
wind bags.

Even though this lonely Civil War guy was widowed,
he wasn’t burned out yet. Short skirts were making their
first appearance in the 1920s. The sidewalks through the
Plaza were full of pedestrians. One evening in the middle
of this old guy’s war story, a trim lady in a short dress
passed by. His droning vocal sound ceased as his eyes
followed the lady ’til she walked out of his line of sight.
After depositing some tobacco juice on the lawn, he
wiped his chin and said. “She’s a darn good looker. Did
you see her legs?”

Also at the Plaza, cults were found floating around
quite a bit after the holiday season. A cowboy preacher
and his wife came to the Plaza for a week of evening
stays. On religious grounds, it seems like anybody could
start up soap-box services.

This couple’s outfit included a fancy car, with religi¬
ous symbols painted on the fenders. One door had a
painting of a redeemed cowboy roping a sinner.

About a couple of hours after sundown, this cowboy
preacher and his mate would drive up to the Plaza, set up
a table, and load it with trinkets that were made by semi-
starving Indians from the Pueblo, Colorado district. A
block like box was used as a pulpit.

His gimmick was to sell enough ornaments from the
table to support his calling, and to buy some food for the
starving natives down on the reservation.

The Rev. Cowboy wore nickle plated spurs, glass
studded boots, a fancy silk shirt with lots of colors on it,
and a cowboy hat that cost lots of bucks. It didn’t seem
like the holy team sold enough stuff to keep their equip¬
ment up to snuff.

His sermons were amusing and rather harmless. He
wore dark glasses, even though the only thing shining
were the Plaza street lights. His wife testified that the dark
glasses were to help keep him from seeing the tempta¬
tions of the world. I remember dad remarking to a friend,
“is that the only way she can control him?”

The Aimee McPherson Show

I am mildly surprised at the interest there is in Aimee
McPherson, especially since half of the population wasn’t
born yet when Aimee was putting on her show. She
touched the lives of many sincere Inland Empire citizens
that dug her Bible Barnum and Bailey style of antics. Ra¬
dio was in its infancy when Aimee installed a radio sta¬
tion on top of her Angelus Temple in Los Angeles. It was
powerful enough to penetrate a lot of old battery ope¬
rated sets in Lincoln County. In fact it was Aimee’s
hanky-pankyness with her radio operator that eventually
caused her downfall.

During Aimee’s money making days she had
customers from as far away as Rocklyn. In fact some took
their ailments all the way down to the Angelus Temple for
Aimee’s touch of magic. They did receive strength
enough to bring their ailing bodies back home.

After the turn of the century Los Angeles was notori¬
ous for its exotic cults. Aimee McPherson is best remem¬
bered of all such evangelists. Little old Aimee’s life began
in 1890 in Canada, finally wound up in China where her
first husband expired. Upon returning to the States, she
married Harold McPherson. That marriage ended in di¬
vorce when she turned to full time evangelism and heal¬
ing.

Aimee was a dynamic and attractive woman. Fame,
money, power, marital relationship, and that healing gi-
mic made her the center of attention. Highly successful
she settled in Los Angeles where her followers put up a
classy temple for their queen.

With the offstage help of her mother, ‘Ma’ Kennedy,
Aimee conducted revival services in theatrical style,
dressing to express the theme of her sermons. On one
occasion Aimee rode a motorcycle down the aisle wear¬
ing a policeman’s uniform for a speech on “God’s Law.”

Let’s go back to 1926 when Aimee did a sensatioal
five week disappearing act that brought grave charges
against her. She must have figured she needed more noto¬
riety. At one time 45 legal actions were pending against
Aimee.

Aimee’s biggest production got under way when she
went for a dip in the Pacific ocean. Scene number two:
Presto, she disappeared from the face of the earth. Five
weeks later she was found stretched out horizontally on
the edge of a desert asking for water. Aimee claimed she
was kidnapped by two burly guys, and their girl friend,
Rosie. They carted her off to the middle of the desert,
and placed her in a small shack. When all the kidnappers
went for canned goods, Aimee said she was able to chew
her bindings off and took a 20 mile walk ’til she found a
road to collapse on.

The prosecuting attorney’s version of Aimee’s esca¬
pades were slightly different. He figured she ran off with
Armstead, her radio operator to shack up with him at a
snazzy place called Carmel By The Sea.

Things did look a little fishy when Aimee wasn’t de¬
hydrated, and her shoes looked like they had only been
worn on carpeted floors. Her tracks and the desert shack
could never be found.

The events that followed turned into a three ring cir¬
cus. All during Aimee’s trial her followers put on a weekly
parade through Los Angeles streets. One week a large
float had Aimee humped under a cross. It was supposed
to represent the persecution she was going through.
Those scores of charges against Aimee turned into sort of
a mistrial. It could have been caused by prosecuting attor¬
ney Asa Keys not keeping his nose clean. He was
charged with some sort of wrong doings too, and had to
set in jail for a while.

The trial shortened Aimee McPherson’s career con¬
siderably. By 1942 the Temple had already begun to be
just a tourist attraction. Aimee would perform but the
dough didn’t roll in bank vault style. She took to the road
to spur interest.

My dad was in a small way fascinated by Aimee’s
showmanship. Sugar and I took him to hear Aimee for
the last time in 1943 when she made a personal appear¬
ance at the Masonic Temple in Spokane. It wasn’t long
afterwards that Aimee Semple McPherson called it quits,
and took an overdose of sleeping pills.

Reminiscing

The religious community that surrounds Sugar and
me is part of our environment. Seems like at Christmas
time, we are drawn back to take in a couple of Christmas
presentations of religious value. When the church festival
ends, social friendliness abides among the Christmas glit¬
ter. Season’s greetings are exchanged verbally, usually
for the last time before Christmas Eve arrives.

How fortunate that we live in a country where we
can think and believe what we please. Why, away back
there in the old country, for ages they spent lots of time
blowing each other into oblivion over religion, and right
now they are at it worse than ever.

Only time will tell what the New Year holds forth. I
have always figured making New Year’s resolutions was

for the birds. But I’ve got a habit that’s out of control, so
I’m willing to try anything that’s a commitment to bolster
my inner strength. Beginning January first, 1986, and to
last as long as humanly possible, I resolve that I will not let
Oral Roberts or any other ‘way out’ lucrative TV evangel¬
ist bug me anymore.

Sugar will have my blessing to switch stations when
any of those guys with piercing eyes appears on our tel¬
evision tube. Why do these fellows upset me so? Guess
I’ve been around too many of their kind.

My first association began during my early venture as
a strawberry picker in California when I aided a tent toting
evangelist. It was during the time when the sensational

Aimee McPherson disappeared from the face of the
earth. It left her flock to carry on without a rudder.

This event caused religious fever to run high in cer¬
tain groups. Aimee’s Four Square Gospel stations were
going full speed. Other satellite organizations also figured
the time was ripe to do their thing. Since mother became
entranced in fundamentalism, several dry run church type
meetings were held in our house. When the test ended,
the minister from mom’s denomination figured it was the
right time to contact a traveling evangelist, who had just
finished lugging his folding tabernacle tent back from an
Oregon crusade.

Upon contact, Evangelist Black agreed to take a
chance at another crusade. This guy took a liking to me
and gave me the opportunity to help him haul his tent
down from Hemit to our place.

We had to wait a week for a Santa Ana wind to blow
itself out. Then with the aid of my berry picking friends
we were able to get that tangled mess of a tent erected. It
wasn’t a big circus tent like Oral Roberts used on his heal¬
ing crusades across the country. It was a three center pole

affair that could hold up to 400 believers and sinners.

But things went haywire. Aimee McPherson showed
up and blew it when she pulled out that rather bizarre
kidnapping tale. After the authorities arrested her, it de¬
stroyed any possibility for Mr. Black to preach around a
story of that magnitude. He settled for some leisure living
up at his winter headquarters in Hemit.

The tent stood erected for several months. It proved
to be more of a curiosity to passing local folks, than a
place of redemption. Walt Knott on his daily drives to
pick up berries never asked how come that oversized tent
was parked on our property.

The tent was used for a while for Sunday School and
occasionally church services. An old maid preacher
would come up from Orange to explain her version of
correct living.

When spring came, I returned this guy’s tent and
trailer. As a reward for my faithful service, he gave me a
1913 model T Ford that a believer donated to him and
was left at our place. Part of this relic was used to restore
our old Model T for my flight back to Washington.

A Debunker Speaks

1984 marked the 125th anniversary of the YWCA in
the good old U.S.A. Their motto is:“125 years and still
pioneering.”

A person can’t help but feei good all over about their
imperative statement which was printed on that year’s an¬
nual report cover, “—to thrust our collective power to¬
ward the elimination of racism wherever it exists, and by
any means necessary.”

This is quite a contrast from what is going on over in
Idaho, where a so called Christian organization calls them¬
selves Neo-Nazis. Their sworn duty is to keep the banner
of race violence going at full blast. Just like what has been
going on for ages.

On the bright side, the majority of us live with lots of
love and tender care in our hearts, and wouldn’t harm a
soul intentionally. However, some of us did take up de¬
bunking. But the road of debunking can be a lonesome
one. For every myth a person destroys can isolate a per¬
son from the community of believers. So it’s best to settle
down and respect the sacred beliefs of others.

But a few didn’t care to give up that oasily, and prob¬
ably never will. For example: There is a predominate free
thinking housewife, whose name is Ruth Miller. She has
the ability to destroy myths. “Show me a dogma, and I’ll
tear it apart,’’she says.

For the benefit of her children, Ruth did return to the
world of the church. “I tried the Baptist,” she stated,
“They worried too much about religion. Everyone in our
family had only been born once.”

Ruth then tried the Methodist. The first time her se¬
nior son questioned a contradictory verse, the Sunday
School teacher announced the class wasn’t considering
Divine Revelation today.

Then she tried the Unitarians. There she thought she

found heaven on earth in the sanctuary of kindred souls.
For a while Ruth was with glee in her new found
community.

But it didn’t take long for Mary to discover that the
Unitarians welcome Humanists, and encourage them to
hold membership in a liberal political party; . . . welcome
atheists, especially if they support ERA . . . welcome
Christians if they can learn to relax.

Not very well pleased, she looked at her primary
source material and found out that her community of re¬
ligious liberals contributes to a dogmatic political journal.

“Take note,” Ruth said, “There is a debunker in
your midst, and I intend to continue my lifestyle. This Un¬
itarian is a registered Republican, anti-ERA, is supported
by a military paycheck, and evil of evils, smokes in
public!”

It’s easy to see that no one denomination can please
everyone. Maybe that’s why there are so many different
breeds of churches.

Whether you agree to disagree, college professors
can also add food for thought. Chris Sublett, an art
teacher out at Cheney is one of them. The professor be¬
came friends of the Jim Gooleys when Jo was one of his
art students. This gave Chris a change to take loads of
farm pictures out at the Gooleys, and Mielkes’ farm. Later
Sublett had his prize photos on display for a month in
downtown Spokane, including a framed in statement of
knowledge, which read: ‘If man’s imagination were not
so weak, so easily tired, his capacity for wonder not so
limited, he would abandon forever his dreams of the Su¬
pernatural.

He would learn to perceive in water, leaves and sil¬
ence more than sufficient of the absolute, and the marve¬
lous, more than enough to console him for the loss of the
ancient dreams.”

Comments

A letter was written to a local newspaper stating that
since I’m a Humanist, I need to be controlled on what I
write. Please, let me make a few comments.

It’s sort of silly to separate ourselves from becoming
one family, because of personal beliefs. The modern dic¬
tionary joins us all together. Christians: “Exhibiting a spirit
proper to a follower of Christ, as in having a loving regard
for other persons, etc.” Humanist: “A person having
strong interest in or concern for human welfare, value,
dignity, etc. ”

Except for the spiritual differences, we are all work¬
ing for the same human needs. For those that think it’s
naughty to be a humanist, let’s see how some of them
survived.

In 1970, Vice President Walter Mondale, was a feat¬
ured speaker at the Quadrennial Congress of the Interna¬
tional Humanist and Ethical Union. Mondale stated in
that speech: “Although I have never joined a humanist
society, I think I am a member by inheritance. My preach¬
er father was a humanist ... I grew up on a very rich
diet of humanism from him. All of our family have been
deeply influenced by this tradition including my brother
Lester, Unitarian Minister, and Chairman of the Fellow¬
ship of Religious Humanists.”

After Mondale’s speech. Dr. Barry Commoner re¬
ceived the International Humanist of the Year Award.

Scientist Carl Sagan won the same award two years be¬
fore.

A lot of frothing anti-Humanists won’t like Walter
Mondaie’s record. Still we have a lot to be thankful for,
because the mainstream Christians and Jewish bodies are
not bigoted.

Mondale is a Methodist, and likely a very humanistic
one. Adlai Stevenson, a staunch Unitarian, took out a
Presbyterian membership.

This proves that inter-mixing of beliefs does happen,
and it works for the good. If any person’s personal belief
is a threat to others, then that person is not sure of his or
her own beliefs.

Thomas Jefferson, a free thinker, and a Unitarian all
his life, never found his beliefs a hinderance when it came
to writing up the Constitution.

Our beloved President Kennedy, a good Catholic,
also proved his fairness by respecting all religions of the
world. The church and state was not threatened in Ken¬
nedy’s days like it is now.

Ronald May of Moscow, Idaho, made this state¬
ment: “Surely Christians and Humanists alike would
rather live in a world where the assurance that all men
and women have food, clothing, and shelter, is far more
important than their beliefs.”

Mythology

Recently Sugar and I heard a speaker, speaking on
mythology. He said that certain myths can help make fac¬
ing life a little easier. Gosh, I didn’t know that. Maybe it
does, by making the hard truth more pliable to live with. I
do enjoy some of the folklore that’s still floating around
our environment, that is, if it’s not too heavily loaded with
superstition. About all of our folklore and what nots, were
brought over from the ‘old country’ by our dear departed
immigrants. Seems like the Indians got by with less mythi¬
cal ideas.

First, let’s take a look at water witching. It’s a witch
craft hang-up from the deepest past, and is very stubborn
in leaving. Let’s hope that such irritating nonsense will
soon fade away. All it takes is for the younger generation
to tell the old man he’s all wet.

Superstition can be more harmful than myth, yet at
times it can be amusing. Sugar and I, in our younger
days, used to throw straight-type house parties. A Friday
the 13th was arriving close to our scheduled party time. A
brainstorm hit me, why not set the party date 24 hours
earlier and have more fun? We could have a mirror bust¬
ing party, and place a ladder against the wall for the pur¬
pose of guests passing under it during a circle game. At
lunchtime, our old pet cat could have been drug across
each one’s path as they went for snacks.

What a dream! I contacted a neighbor to see what he
thought of a Friday the 13th party. He didn’t think it was

such a hot idea. So Sugar suggested I’d better drop the
‘spook type’ party, as she had no desire to help entertain
an empty house.

Superstition can also be a chore of rearranging
things. Years ago, a pioneer family of great hospitality
had us for dinner. It turned out there were 13 hungry bo¬
dies waiting to be fed at a large harvest sized table.
Quickly, plates were shuffled in such a way that one plate
ended up at the kitchen counter where a member of the
family was guided to eat. A question was asked why the
segregation of the one person, when there was room at
the table. We were told of an incident where a guy died
later, after 13 were seated for dinner.

That theory didn’t hold water. Since our gathering at
that dinner of 12, plus one off in the distance, three have
since gone to their permanent resting places.

Beliefs should never be challenged when one is sin¬
cere. For example, a friendly friend of ours, who for
months had regular gall bladder attacks, but always got
healed from pain after asking the good Lord for relief.
Her Maker came to the rescue so many times, that she
started to feel quite guilty. When the final gall bladder at¬
tack flared up, this suffering individual said, “No more
was I going to overwork my Maker, so right up to the hos¬
pital I went.” After the sack of troublesome stones was
removed, the Lord was able to get more rest. We all had
to respect this lady’s none-demanding attitude.

Puppy Love

Sugar and I have been watching a weekly TV story
that involved teenagers living in present times. What they
are learning now days about love and sexuality is proba¬
bly long overdue. Let’s hope they will all find happiness
in their search for solid mates.

Before maturity set in, and Sugar entered my life,
culture was one heck of a lot different than it is now. I
suppose anyone around my age would have similar stor¬
ies to tell.

I have no idea what road I’d have taken in these
modern days of fast mores. One cannot regret the slow
pace of the past that some of us followed. Although there
were times in my early life that I envied the more aggres¬
sive friends, or should I say, the more matured ones.

The fact that girls were different hit me before I could
grow whiskers successfully. Puppy love entered my mind
while I was still stuck in Orange, California. A Menonite
church was only a block away. The sight of a bobbed
haired girl by the name of Lilly Skiles, drew me through
the doors of this religious order.

Inside the quaint church, I found it loaded with sin¬
cere worshippers. It took me quite a while to get used to
their style of faith. The Evangelicals I grew up with out
here at Rocklyn had a different approach in seeking
Christian comfort.

Instead of communion, the Menonites took turns
washing each other’s feet up on the pulpit platform. Pans
filled with water were lined up alongside of chairs that
were used for sitting purposes during this kind of ritual.
Usually they would utter a lot of religious jollies as their
feet were being scrubbed.

The Menonite girls took a shy approach to new
friends. It lent a certain sweetness to their simple beauty.
With the girls not expecting anything great, it allowed us
equally slow guys to coast along in our own fantasy
world.

During the height of my love sickness for that Meno¬
nite girl, I was not able to function properly from Monday
until the next Sunday morning. It was impossible to see
Lilly in person during the week, because she attended
high school while I was trying to sweat out my last term in
grade school.

However, some week day nights were spent on
Newport Beach with Lilly. No there weren’t any romantic
interludes. I was always with a group of Menonite young
people. We would build a bonfire on the beach, and
when the moon came up, fish about the size of smelts
would bounce up onto the beach. I guess they were all
female fishes, because they would wiggle in to the sand,
and make a hole with their bellies to lay their eggs in.

While the fishes were busy doing their thing, the fun
was to pick them up, and throw them into a sack for eat¬
ing purposes later on. (Sounds fishy, doesn’t it? That’s
because you haven’t been around.)

Usually, I got to hold the flashlight and sack for Lilly
as she picked up those fish called grunians. Fun ran high
when we got slapped by a wave as we tried to grab the
last of these fish that were trying to make it back to their
ocean home.

Drifting away from this Sunday group was rather
painful for me. Older guys with automobiles had the ad¬
vantage. A guy with a car started taking Lilly out for rides.
Moving out to the ranch, and working for Walt Knotts
didn’t help me forget her. She had a brother that was go¬
ing with my sister. He would drive out to the ranch quite
often, and that didn’t help matters either.

Thirty-four years ago, Lilly came up to Washington
with her husband, and visited with my sister, and me,
also Sugar. I asked her if she really knew how gung ho I
was about her. She not only remembered, but also felt
sorry for all the insecure frustrations I had. After all these
years, wasn’t that sweet of her to have felt sorry for me?

Those Old California Days

Time can wipe out a lot of the old scenic past, espe¬
cially in Southern California. Lots of people are the rea¬
son. When you get too many in one place, it changes the
texture of the country. It was kind of risky showing Sugar
all the places that I used to roam in my Model T while liv¬
ing in Orange and Norco. There are just too many free¬
ways down there that have too many cars on them. It
scares the heck out of a guy.

While cruising on top of the freeways, I could see
down below that rooftops have replaced orange groves
and walnut trees. A spot where I used to pick waterme¬
lons and berries now has a replica of Independence Hall
setting on it. Tourists and sightseers have also filled in the
rest of the familiar haunts. The location where our old
ranch was, is now plugged up with houses filled with peo¬
ple who got squeezed out of Los Angeles.

In the 1920s the interesting part about that section of
human growth was that everyone was anxious to survive

a little better there than the place they came from. That
Norco district was the brain storm of promoter, Rex B.
Clarke.Folks that bought in there had to lower their sights
somewhat, and lived with the feeling that a person might
in time get ahead of the other fellow.

All at once I got to thinking, what am I doing here?
My only hope of getting back to Washington was that dad
might go broke as a self appointed realtor. He often said
that if he had to carry a lunch pail, he would come back
to the farm. When mother never showed signs of putting
up lunch for him, my hopes faded and there was nothing
else to do but sweat it out for a while longer.

Making it through the last year in California was
eased somewhat when our house started filling up with
relatives or friends that were either visiting or looking for an
opening themselves. What also helped me a lot was
when an old guy by the name of Dave Robinson and his
invalid wife became our neighbors.

Old man Robinson traded his self sufficient plot of
Ozark land in Arkansas for a piece of sun baked ground
next to ours. It had a cottage and a chicken house full of
chickens on it. The adult chickens were supposed to sup¬
ply enough eggs so these two oldsters from Arkansas
could survive and enjoy sunny California. That’s what
they were told by a fast talking real estate guy.

As soon as Mr. Robinson got there, he ordered a re¬
placement batch of chicks and watched them grow up to
egg laying size. Even though all his chickens laid good
sized eggs, they never paid for their keep

I had a lot in common with old man Robinson. I was
raising ducks on the side because I liked ducks. But my
kind of ducks didn’t like California weather, even with the
large pond I installed for their benefit. We both suffered
economical disaster together. Liquidation took place
without filing bankruptcy.

This caused homesickness to set in on Dave Robin¬
son. Only in his daily dreams was he able to have hopes
of getting his Ozark place back. Down deep he knew he
was too old to do anything about it. He always felt better
when he would tell us what a Garden of Eden the Ozarks
was, but at the same time it brought tears to his eyes.

Dave would explain how self sufficient iife was there.
When he needed a hog to eat on, all he had to do was to
go out into the woods and shoot at a razorback. Berries of
all kinds were there on the slopes for the picking. When
fall came, he and his wife would go out in the open with a
couple of sacks and gather wild nuts and other edible
things. Except for chewing tobaco he bought very little at
the general store.

Since there were no wild nuts to gather or razorback
hogs to shoot at in California, Dave asked Mr. Knott for a
job. He became our eldest worker there.

Dave loved to pick berries, but weeds grew quite
well between the strawberry rows. This required a lot of
hoeing. Dave tired of that job quite easily, and spent too
much time sitting down to sharpen his hoe. The boss
came by one day and found Dave’s hoe razor sharp and
he was told it didn’t need any more sharpening. Knott

Social

When Horace Mann got all through living, he had
this message written on his tombstone: “Be ashamed to
die, until you have won some victory for humanity.”

Thankfully, we have people that work for humane
causes of the underprivileged. Former news editor, Terri
Roloff-Warrington of Wilbur had done her bit for human¬
ity. Terri spent six weeks working in an orphanage, away
down in Cuernavaca, Mexico, somewhere south of Mex¬
ico City.

It looks like the younger folks throughout the nation
are our main hope for social justice. Just attend some of
the caring organizations, and you will find out it’s true.

All the recent happenings remind me of the race fa¬
voritism that took place over 60 years ago in Southern
California. Part of our eight years spent in the south were
at Orange. We located ourselves on the edge of a Mexi¬
can settlement, where my dad built a house.

“Ozark"Robinson and his Invalid wife.

didn’t mean to overwork the old guy, but he was not a
fellow to let anyone goof off or file their hoe down to the
handle.

How Dave longed worse than ever to be back in
those self supplying hills of the Ozarks where he could
sharpen his hoe for as long as he wanted to. It certainly
would have been smart of him if he had made a scouting
trip out to California first. He would have known whether
he could sustain a successful retirement life outside of his
environment. Many happily can, but old man Robinson
couldn’t.

Justice

When we moved to a so called California ranch, our
house was rented out to a Mexican family. In less than a
week, a pure white racist guy put dynamite under our
house. It had a long fuse sticking out from under the
porch, so our renters could see the danger they were in if
they stayed there. Naturally, the family took a powder,
and left the house very empty.

A lot of Mexicans lived three blocks from our Orange
house. A German guy moved into this neighborhood,
and married a Mexican lady with a pile of kids. He was a
Methodist minister that loved to sing in Spanish, Ger¬
man, and English.

From a few donations, and a long standing mort¬
gage, a small church of Spanish design was built. The
preacher tried to inter-mix the races by inviting the well
heeled German folks from the outer circle to join them in
worshipping together.

But that idea fell flat on its face, and the church went
down the drain. The last time Sugar and I visited that spot
of little Mexico, the windowless church was used as a
playhouse by little Chicanos.

But the minister did win a victory for humanity. He
got a job at the old Fig Nut Food Factory in Orange, and
spent his vacation time south of the border helping the
poor.

When my mother was buried at Orange, the under¬
taker warned dad and I that the plot we chose was lo¬
cated where Mexicans were allowed to be buried. So on
resurrection day in that district, the road to heaven will be
of mixed race.

Before our sojourn to the south, Herman Bakenhus,
a pioneer Rocklyn farmer, moved part of his large family
to Garden Grove. Bakenhus encouraged dad to buy a
bare piece of land in that town.

Over at Long Beach, a lot of small houses were in

the way of the newly drilled oil well holes. Those houses
were available just for the moving expense. Some of
them found their way to dad’s and Bakenhus’ lots, and
they were sold to Mexican workers.

It wasn’t long after we left the country, that the Mexi¬
cans were kicked out of town to make room for the ’pre¬
ferred’ race. Recently, a preacher who has a lot of class,
moved into that territory. He built a spiritual tower out of
glass, that holds many classy people and tourists during
his services.

A Spanish friend at Orange by the name of Al-
phonso Silvanis, did his bit for humanity. He and his fam¬
ily bought a house in the snooty part of town. When his
job transferred him to Los Angeles, he let a Mexican fam¬
ily live in his house.

Alphonso told his neighbors they were relatives of
his. By the time word got out that they were Mexican, the
neighbors learned to love them. So the placing of dyna¬
mite under the house was not necessary.

When Radio Was Born

Gosh, what an informative world we live in now
days. Radio and television help to make that possible. If
you can’t be home for your favorite TV program, just
snap on a gismo that will record it for you, then at your
leisure, play it back.

Public television station KSPS is loaded with goodies
that will feed knowledge into all of us. Other stations also
have documentary stuff like 20-20 and Sixty Minutes.
Discussion groups such as the Donahue show will keep
us all in touch with life as it is today. For variety, tune in
on a story or a show of your choice.

Before the 1920s, there were no pictures or voices
traveling through the air, just a lot of dots and dashes that
could be translated into words. When music and voices
entered the air waves, pictures were missing for the first
30 years. Merging of the two didn’t take place here in
eastern Washington ’til 36 years ago when KHQ Channel
6 was born.

A lot of us ‘over the hill’ folks were ahead of our
times and had to wait quite a while for radio to be inven¬
ted. When radio finally entered the air waves, I was phas¬
ing out my meager education down south. My neighbor
Sammie Lough and I got hooked on making crystal sets.
Our manual training teacher taught us how. It made us
feel smart, so we decided to make a bunch of sets. When
my tent-bedroom became our assembly pl^nt, Sammie
and I went scavaging for every empty round oatmeal box
we could find. After wrapping scads of wire around these
boxes, they worked as tuning coils. Crystal sets required
no electrical energy. A small crystal rock worked as an
amplifier when a connecting piece of wire about the thick¬
ness of a cat whisker was poked manually into a sensitive
spot on the rock. Then whamo! our ear phones would
bring in a lot of stuff and things if the sliding oatmeal
boxes were tuned into the right place.

Those little sets worked like magic. The town of Or¬
ange was just the right distance for picking up big time
stuff out of Los Angeles. But our business of making crys¬
tal sets was short-lived. A few neighbors bought some just

to make us happy. Competition from three-tube radio
kits, and factory built radios made our ear phone sets just
kid stuff.

KNX was one of the earliest radio stations that went
on the air. At first stations played mostly music, and
straight man comedy sketches. The first news was done
by going out and buying the latest edition from a street
vendor, then reading the juiciest parts over the radio.
Later news was picked up by direct wire, like when Presi¬
dent Harding got sick and died on his trip back from Ala¬
ska. Radio beat the press release by a couple of hours.
The air waves worked like Paul Revere in spreading the
death of Harding.

Things happened fast. The next thing that came up
was when ex-vice president Coolidge made it live on ra¬
dio. He had a few things to say about taking over the
White House. Boy was that a thrill! Hearing a president
coming through a loud speaker when he was so far away.

That was the beginning of a lot of radio firsts. A
swimmer from Canada by the name of George Young
swam from Catalina Island to the mainland. That event
was broadcast live from the shore line of San Pedro. It
was late into the night when George staggered out of the
ocean on his set of wobbly legs. That event to us listeners
was just like being right there.

Long before Amos and Andy came over the radio,
two Los Angeles churches were broadcasting their ser¬
vices. Aimee McPherson had a radio station built right
onto her Angeles Temple. Bob Schuler the Methodist
minister down there, did his broadcasting over a com¬
mercial radio. - Bob is no ancestor of Robert Schuller
who now preaches from a huge glass cage in Garden
Grove.

At the height of Aimee’s popularity she started using
a lot of red headed beauties dressed in white. Their duty
was to place patrons properly in an empty seat and to
take up the collection in gold colored velvet bags.
Schuler’s broadcast church services were good and within

the normal range of Christian ethics. But after hearing of
Aimee’s new attraction, Schuler advertised over the radio
that he too was going to have all red headed ladies as
ushers. Rev. Bob also promised that everyone would re¬
ceive the same courtesy that Aimee was dishing out.

The power of radio made Bob about equal with Ai¬
mee. But when we moved back from California, we
couldn’t receive Bob Schuler by radio at all, while Aimee
McPherson’s radio station came in loud and clear. So in
the long run Bob lost out to Aimee when it came to cov¬
erage and popularity.

Growing Years Of Radio And TV

August 30, 1927, was a day I’ll never forget. We
were all ready to abort our California ranch for the migra¬
tion back to Washington. Our furniture was shipped
ahead days before. The three-tube radio was packed
carefully in one of Mom’s large dresser drawers. My
stripped down Model T and the folks’ Essex were pointed
north for some picture taking.

Soon a trail of dust was left behind, as sister and I
took the lead down the road that eventually lead us back
to our Washington farm.

It took 10 days to make it up to about the Washing¬
ton State line. We made a big deal out of surprising a lot
of relatives on our way up to Hermiston. From there to
Walla Walla would be another nest of related people to
see. Any more visiting at that critical time was out for me.
I was too close to the farm that I had been longing for so
long to plant my feet on. After sister found room in the
folks’ overloaded Essex, I beat it across the border, and
was delayed only by the limited output of the Model T in
getting back to where I belonged.

Excitement ran high inside my body. Before the
folks got here, I was able to put kalsomine on the walls of
the main rooms. Got some furniture unpacked and put
where I figured mom wanted it. The Crosley radio was
placed in a good listening area. Even had time to string
up antenna wire that reached from the blacksmith shop to
the house before the folks’ car arrived in the yard.

It was a surprise to find out that the early day radio
stations up here had established a service for the farmers.
While seeding winter wheat that fall, it was neat walking
into the house at supper time, and listening over the radio
whether wheat was a decent price or not. Also the
weather forecast was given by the best methods they had
in those days.

It wasn’t long before I sent to Chicago for a super
powered eight tube radio kit. When I screwed it all down
on a long board it really looked massive and impressive.
A front panel held three large tuning rigs with their dials.
A couple of double action volume controls that were at
arms length apart. Also some unnecessary gismos like a
glass tube that would glow in a flash-like fashion if light¬
ning got pretty close.The’build it yourself radio’ was really
a table model monster that would have overpowered any
living room. I gave it to neighbor Wood Hulburt, so he
could watch the working wonders of radio as he listened
to what ever he wanted to listen to.

As time passed, programs through telephone hook¬
ups got better. Many of the weekly aired shows are now
classics. Early local talent on a weekly base was Daven¬
port’s Tumbling Tumble Weeds’ Boyk sisters. They sang
western songs that pleased the Northwest.

During this period, radio sets were coming off the
assembly line with multiple tubes and cabinets as big as
some TV consoles, minus the picture tube. To run these
sets it took a couple of heavy duty six volt wet batteries.
One was needed to light up the tubes while the other bat¬
tery would be in town getting a charge of electricity. Also
needed to operate those radios were two sets of 45 volt
dry cell batteries, and a small package of C batteries. It
was a portable power plant all its own, making it possible
for radio to reach out into space to bring in all that music,
and audio events.

Before the war years, it was interesting how false ad¬
vertising was used over the air. To sell a certain brand of
radio, the announcer would state to this effect, “Be sure
and buy this radio, it has a five year in advance plug-in for
television.” The illusion given was when television ar¬
rived, you just placed the picture tube on top of the radio
and plugged it in.

September 24, 1929, arrived at our very vacant farmstead, minus one headlight.

After the war it was rumored that soon television
would arrive, but it took ’til 1950 before it got to Spo¬
kane. Like a nut I sent to Seattle for a console TV set,
and had it sitting in the living room for three months be¬
fore a test pattern was ever sent out in our direction.
Guess I just wanted to be ready.

The neighbors played it cool and didn’t start buying
TV sets that winter. But they did want to see what was
going on inside the picture tube. We had two steady sets
of neighbors making it here for their favorite weekly TV
shows.

The Monday nighters came to watch wrestlers slam
each other around. With a little fantasy instead of reality,
that group got entertained to their satisfaction. The
Wednesday nighters came to see Groucho Marx “Bet

Your Life” and usually stayed ’til TV went off the air. For
Sugar and me that winter turned into a local social event.
Sugar made and served so darn many cookies that I had
the beginnings of a lump in front of my stomach.

When neighbors started buying their own television
sets, I took a quick course in TV repair and bought meters
and lots of other fix-em stuff. But after years of bringing
dead TV sets back to life in the surrounding country side,
it got to be old stuff. Now days with remote control, solid
state, trouble free TVs, it’s time for me to just sit back and
enjoy these electronic marvels. Ever since the crystal set
days, my love affair with radio and TV may explain why I
have a TV set in every room except the bathroom, and
that’s because it’s just used mostly during the commer¬
cials.

How To Lose A Farm

From riches to hitting the gospel trail. That’s what
happened to a family I knew very well. The pioneer,,
father of this family lost his shirt and all the rest of his
earthly possessions to a bunch of smooth talking swind¬
lers, who sold worthless mining stock to prime rated
farmers. The gold colored certificates looked impressive.
The suckers names were stamped in raised letters, right
under a special seal. I understand some of these certif¬
icates are still around. They are collectors items by now.

Why did a lot of early day farmers fall for those
dressed up crooks? The main reason was, they were too
busy making a decent living the hard way, - by working.
Their spare time was spent siring, and raising many child¬
ren. It left them little time to study a dishonest person.

Those pioneer farmers should have been left alone.
Green as grass to the outside world, they became sitting
targets for fly-by-night slickers with oily tongues. Those
crooked mining stock salesmen convinced Flerman
Bursch and a half dozen of his neighbors that they were
too smart to be out farming in all that cold weather.

“Look how far you came without an education,” they
were told. “Just put your brains to work. Invest in the
King Gold and Copper Mines’ and you will become a ca¬
pitalist.”

It sounded pretty neat to Herman, and some of his
well healed neighbors. Those that were taken, turned
their farm holdings into stacks of mining stocks.

Good old trusting Herman Bursch then leaned back
and began waiting for dividends from the sales of gold
bars to set in. Meanwhile, the loan company figured
waiting for Mr. Bursch’s royalties to show up was for the
birds. He was stripped of his earthly possessions, except
for part interest in the Rocklyn Farmers Warehouse that
the mining salesmen accidentally overlooked.

It was hard for the Bursch family to leave such a
show place. Many a camp meeting was held in their well
publicized grove. The clan was able to salvage some
horses and a scattering of farm machinery. Herman, his
wife and the married and the unmarried part of the family

migrated up to the Rocklyn railroad tracks, where they
moved into a couple of vacant farm houses.

In the early 1930s times were tough. The family tried
to resurrect one of the vacant farms. The next year, their
old wooden Harrington Harvester had a rough time cut¬
ting the rented eight bushel spring wheat crop. That fall,
the family ended their last stand as farmers.

Deeply religious all his life, Herman Bursch raised
his family to follow the narrow path. He was a man that
never carried any ill feelings. He did however figure the
world was wicked. After all he lost his fortune to guys that
didn’t act like Christians.

Herman was terribly worried about Italian dictator

Benito Mussolini. He was sure Mussolini would stick ar¬
ound long enough to fulfill some Bible prophecy. That
was before some Italian countrymen hung the stuttering
dictator from the ceiling of a service station. Always sin¬
cere about his convictions, I didn’t mind listening to his
ideas of what he thought was in store for the world in
general.

Herman’s two oldest sons, Chester and Archie
heeded a sincere conviction to take up evangelistic work
and spread the gospel of salvation. Roy Warwick, a self
appointed minister of the same faith, joined the two rookie
evangelists as a helper. Ritzville was to become their first
main crusade.

A Mini Crusade

The Crusade that took place in Spokane out at the
Joe Albi stadium several years ago far outdid the one I
took part in 55 years ago. Actually I was just a flunky,
helping out with some transportation and entertaining the
preacher’s pre-school kids.

The winter of 1931-32 was one heck of a winter to
start any kind of a Crusade. Snow fell and drifted on
Thanksgiving Day. When December arrived, most of the
country roads were plugged with snow. By midwinter,
drifts got high enough to bury our chicken house.

Two weeks before Christmas that rough winter, my
three friends with a message, Chester, Archie, and Roy
Warwick started their Crusade in Ritzville. A pulpit and
some benches went with the vacant building that was lo¬
cated in the old part of downtown Ritzville. Upstairs was a
place for eating, sleeping, and preparing sermons. It was
pretty crowded when guests arrived for a stay. Chester
was married and had started a family, also Roy. Archie
was single which helped a lot for space.

After cards were printed and an outdoor banner was
made, the Crusade was ready to get going. Snow storms
isolated the two evangelists’ parents that were stuck up
here at Rocklyn. Herman and his wife wanted so badly to
get in on the beginning of the revival.

Herman was too scared to drive his car down to Ritz¬
ville in all that ice, snow and fog. I was asked to be their
chauffeur. The Ritzvile road was blocked at Harrington.
Detouring around by Sprague was no jollies. In those
days, windshields had no defrosters. The only remedy
was for me to stick my head out of the window and let it
freeze ’til Ritzville was reached.

I was so cold that night that I stood down in front by
the wood burning stove all during the evening services.
What few attended the meeting thought I couldn’t wait
for the altar call.

It was nice visiting with my friends. They looked
about the same, except they wore suits all day long. Visit¬
ing about farming days and why they took up gospel
work was the main topic. Except for emptying out the
collection box, picking up some groceries, straightening
the outside banner up and sweeping out the hall, there
wasn’t much to do. The gospel car was available if I cared
to visit relatives, but the country roads held too much
snow.

The scattering of attendants got their money’s worth.
Chester the friendly one, Archie the more serious one,
and Roy the handsome, jolly guy made quite a trio. They
had a double feature going on the same bill each night.
Both Chester and Roy delivered their own style of ser¬
mons. Archie inherited a good set of lungs, and did a lot
of solo singing. On the tail end of the services, Archie’s
singing voice blended in with the altar call. The senior
Bursch, Herman, acted as a receptionist and later a seek¬
er of prospective souls.

Several calm days rose the attendance about 30.
Then the wind started to whistle around that old building
that saw better times. The turn out dropped to about
zero. My friends began looking like a bunch of missionar¬
ies stranded on a deserted island. They decided to stick it
out, and I started to get homesick. I had no desire to stay
and see if their prayers were going to get answered for
better weather and larger crowds.

The wind quieted down the next morning, so it gave
me a chance to head for home on foot. Did catch a ride
to Tokio. From then on the road was blocked. Had one
heck of a time walking through drifts and snow swept
grades. First stop was Harrington for a rest at a service
station. From there on, it was more dragging my feet
through crusted snow ’til Rocklyn was reached.

Sure was mighty glad to get home that night, where I
could once again listen to Amos and Andy on the radio.

Dad, mom and sis filled me in on all the things that hap¬
pened while I was cavorting around with the messengers
of faith.

What happened to part of the Bursch family? Well
they didn’t make the big time circuit, but stayed loyal to

their convictions. Herman and wife Minia are all gone
now. So is Archie from a heart condition. Chester and
wife Eleanor are retired and living in Spokane. Roy War¬
wick was up from California visiting with friends and rela¬
tives. Herman’s grandson, Merrill Womach, is a well
known gospel singer in Spokane.

Comments

After writing the Bursch articles, memories and local
chit-chat caused g hankering to go see the survivors of
the ‘Ritzville Crusaders from Rocklyn”. That’s what Sugar
and I did. We drove out to the house that belongs to
Chester and Eleanor Bursch.

Even though we lived under the same clouds for fifty
years, our paths went in different directions. Except for
some brief visiting at gravesides when an old Rocklyn citi¬
zen was laid away, we never had a good old fashioned
visit ’til Sunday.

I’m glad to report that Chester is 88 years old now,
and very alert, and so is Eleanor. Wally Knack had given
them a copy of the Davenport times that had the “Old
Time Religion Crusade” in it. So it was easy to slide into
events of bygone days with the Burschs. Eleanor even re¬
membered the name of a young lady down at Ritzville

that I enjoyed visiting with after the evening evangelistic
services came to an end.

Chester believes that the emotional stress of losing
the family farm, and the loss of a twelve year old son in a
farming accident, shortened his father’s life considerably.
Those that remembered Herman, knew that he was a sin¬
cere and progressive man.

Brooms must have been a popular housewive’s wea¬
pon in those early days. Since penning the Bursch story,
I’ve been told of two cases where wives of prospective
victims took after those mining swindlers with a broom.

All in all, it was an afternoon of delightful reminisc¬
ing. Usually postponing a visit, wipes out that opportun¬
ity.

Note: Since the above writing was written, Chester
Bursch and Roy Warwick have passed away.

Traps Swindlers Used

There is much less reason for being conned out of
money today, than when our dear departed loved ones
were trying to make a living. Yet, idle savings can still get
washed away. Who thought that Washington Public
Power Supply System would fall flat on its face? Well it
did, and many lost some dough. But WPPSS was not a
swindle. It was something like gambling at Las Vegas.

The story about Herman Bursch losing his farm to
gold mine swindlers, opened up a whole can of worms.
Stories from every direction came in about broken
dreams, caused by money being transferred from pioneer
farmers to empty gold mine holes.

I even received information on that religious cult Pet¬
erson who promised power from God instead of high-
octane to run his faith operated airplanes. I was told
where I can locate some of the stock certificates that this
false prophet sold to gung-ho believers.

Last spring, the Mielkes rifled through an old family
trunk. Their findings were like an empty gold mine filled
with old worthless mining stock certificates. However,
through long years of aging in the trunk, the certificates
did grow to some value as souvenirs. The trunk also re¬
vealed that their dad’s financial loss was more devastating
than realized. If it hadn’t been for a caring relative who
stayed out of those ‘gold rush’ days, the Mielke founda¬
tion would have collapsed.

I also found out from Chester Bursch how the swin¬
dlers used a front to squeeze more money out of the in¬
volved stock holders. Broken down machinery was
dumped by the hole in the mountain, and a bunch of un¬

employed men were herded up to the site. The scene,
was just right when the worried backers arrived. Aspokes-
man for the swindlers made a statement in these rela¬
tive terms, “All we need is a little more money to fix up
this ready to go machinery, and to get these professional
miners you see standing here, back to work. Nuggets can
then be hauled out and turned into cash.”

Herb Kruger remembers as a young fellow that he
went up to one of the mines with a local group of financial
backers. To stimulate more interest in the sales of stock,
hand shovels were used to square up a vertical surface on
the side of the mountain. When a roof like mining entr¬
ance was put up, the promoters went back home. From
the road below, it looked like a real mine entrance that
extended back into the bowels of the mountain.

Even oil swindlers got into the act. This summer I re¬
ceived a copy of an original oil promotion letter. It was
sent through the mail on Dec. 26, 1907 as sort of a
Christmas present. The idea was to catch all the suckers
that lived throughout the Inland Empire, and to drain
them of their cash. The letter reads as follows:

Dear Sir:- Herewith we hand you a deed to a lot in
the town of Waukesha, Wash., and take this opportun¬
ity of calling your attention to important developments
about to take place there . . . Aside from establishing a
health resort at Waukesha the promoters expect to deve¬
lop power for commercial purposes at Lake Creek Falls.
This in itself will make Waukesha an important point.

We have also indications of petroleum, which led to
the recent incorporation of the Waukesha Oil Company,

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WARWHOOP MINING AND MILLING CO,

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capitalized at $1,000,000 . . . The company has already
purchased a complete oil drilling outfit. This drill will be
operated night and day by expert men from the oil fields
of Pennsylvania.

The Waukesha Oil Co., will give you a lot and 40
shares of stock in the Company for $10., 10 lots and 400
shares for $100. When the Company strikes oil or gas the

Early Farm

Well, another year has brought another end to the
Lincoln County Fair. Many a four legged animal that won
blue ribbon awards profited nothing since they will meet
sudden death. All because a lot of us haven’t broken the
meat eating habit. Chewing on a prize winning steak is a
big deal to everyone but the steer.

On the humane side, it’s the prizes human beings re¬
ceive that are not forgotten. Every year, awards are given
for the Farmer of the Year, and the Cattleman of the
Year. It’s the progressive winners that give the rest guide¬
lines to follow, usually on a simpler scale.

In the pioneer days, what encouraged farmers to im¬
prove themselves? The same as today. They wanted the
best that was available. Some inherited the ability to do
something about their lot in life, and invented their own
improvements.

It’s kinda interesting going over early day achieve¬
ment records of soil tillers. The thought that lots of pro¬

person securing 5 or 10 lots will own sufficient ground to
have a flowing well worth $5,000 to $20,000, besides
shares in the Company. Do you want to share in this en¬
terprise? Oil has made many millionaires, among them
the richest man in the world, John D. Rockefeller.

For further information address the Waukesha Oil
Company, 14 Bernard Street, Spokane, Washington.

Achievers

gressive farmers were first in many things amazes a lot of
us living in this mechanized, and computerized age.

Every community in Lincoln County had their early
progressive settlers. West of Davenport was no excep¬
tion. There were at least a dozen old timers that were elig¬
ible for the ‘pioneer farmer of the century award.’ There
would have been more, but a lot of ambitious settlers de¬
cided to settle for large families instead of indulging in the
luxury of self improvements.

Others like George Sweezy never had a chance. He
was a highly educated farmer in his time. George had
ideas that needed capital investments. Most farmers
didn’t go along with his enlightened ideas, because they
couldn’t see farther than the end of their noses. A good
leader, George always kept his cool, and could figure
things out in a reasonable way. He had great ability to im¬
prove his lot in life, but the thin layer of soil on his Rock-
lyn farm couldn’t support his advanced improvments.

And so goes the list of sharp old timers that missed
the boat slightly. However, there is reason to believe that
the outgrowth from the pioneer Maurer stock contributed
to the genius of one Mike Maurer. I’m sure Mike would
have beat out any present day ‘farmer of the year,’ simply
because he was ahead of his time. His farm was the show
place of Rocklyn.

Blunt, and sometimes noisy when he got wound up,
Mike was a friendly guy. An ardent reader of current
events, Maurer and George Sweezy organized the Lite¬
rary Society. It helped educate the surrounding neighbors
who usually depended only on a small weekly German
newspaper, and some Sunday School literature. Mike’s
discussions always added food for thought, whether it be
politics, religion, or methods of farming.

The progressive farmer, Mike, In later life.

Dad, and Mike Maurer were brother-in-laws. When
they got together, ninety percent of their time was spent
arguing. Usually they were very uncomfortable if they
could not find something to argue about. Mike had the
advantage over dad, because he was well versed in many
subjects. Dad had to rely on common sense to outsmart
him.

From 1900 to 1920, any traveler passing by the M.
F. Maurer farm in late summer would think they were in
Iowa. Acres of mule high corn stretched out along the
roadside for over a half mile. A large round silo stood tal¬
ler than the typical red barn, with milking sheds attached
to it. Fenced in, corn fed hogs graced one side of Mike’s
spread out farmstead. Scads of Holstein cows enjoyed
chewing on 150 acres of juicy, ankle high winter wheat.
Acres of experimental field peas were waiting to be
hauled to a special thrashing place. In between all this
scenery, was lots of red chaff Gold Coin wheat. It gave
the Maurer farm the right summertime touch of color it
needed to remind the passer by that he was in Washing¬
ton, not Iowa.

Mike had several farm systems figured out that were
years in advance. One of his successful operations was
August seeded winter wheat, and a Holstein cow
combination. The cows feasted on the excessive plant
growth. Their full stomachs supplied droppings that were
spread evenly by the contented cows, producing natural
fertilizer. When the wheat plants received enough
punishment from all that chewing, the cows were kicked

out of the growing wheat, and put on a diet of sweet corn
silage. Crops harvested from Maurer’s double duty fields,
produced more for the warehouse than his other ‘seed it
and reap it’ fields.

How did this guy get started in life? First he left the
bosom of his family when he found aunt Emma and mar¬
ried her. This made it possible for Sidney, Orlin, Hiram,
Trilby, Quenton and Ward to be born. When his family
started to grow, Mike started up a cheese factory. But
Washington was not Wisconsin. So he went in for straight
wheat farming ’til he dove into his show place type of
agronomy farming.

When the Maurer offspring reached the inquisitive
teenage stage, a tennis court was built, and a place to
play ball was laid out. For many years it became the
headquarters on Sundays for all the youth to meet. While
they were having fun, the parents also came to laugh and
talk with other parents.

The Maurer mother and daughter team would on
Saturday nights, prepare food for the Sunday onslaught
that would show up soon after the preacher closed his
pulpit Bible. The tennis court, and the lawn were over¬
loaded with ‘take it for granted’ neighbors. In the evening
songs came from around the piano and other music mak¬
ing things.

The Maurers were located within a circle of settlers.
These settlers like most settlers were fertile, and had lots
of kids. Mike knew this, so he donated land, and time, for
a schoolhouse to be built, along with a woodshed for stor¬
ing stove fuel. Also a barn for those kids that would rather
ride a horse to school than walk. Those Rocklyn settlers
also brought with them their religon, and they needed a
place to put it down, so they could use it on Sundays.
Again Mike donated a pretty good chunk of farm land, so
a church with an empty bell housing could be built. An
ever ready hitching post instead of a barn was added. Un¬
less the preacher got too long winded, the tied up buggy
horses never got too hungry between meals.

Yea, Mike Maurer was quite a guy in many ways.
He and Ed Kruger built the first grain elevator at Rocklyn
in 1914. Mike probably was the first amateur photo¬
grapher in Lincoln County. He bought his first camera in
1898, and did his own developing. Many a historical pic¬
ture came from his home studio.

During the hay-day of Maurer’s prosperity, five acres
of park surrounded the entrance of their farm. A vine
covered gazebo was in the middle of it all, and was used
for those that wished to tarry for a spell. Mike was the
happiest when he could make a lot of pretty unessential
things grow

Believing in higher education for their kids, Mike and
Emma moved to Pullman, and bought a place that held
some college boarding students, as well as their own for
schooling purposes. Mike then began his active retire¬
ment by becoming the college campus caretaker.

Old Maurer’s long and progressive life could have
ended on a more rewarding side, but it didn’t. After los¬
ing Emma to cancer, a couple of tries to find a successful
retirement mate failed by a tragic auto death, and by
other causes. It seems like many a pioneer farmer that
broke trails in advanced farming methods, left a heritage
that was later forgotten.

■MM** ' *

Mini Farm - Mini Combine - Stormo’s retirement farm, Inc.

Mini Farms Are Necessary

When a farmer is heavy with age, having the ‘hots’
for a large farm gradually leaves him. With the kids
raised, and out of the way, (maybe) we should be able to
do what we want. For the retiree, every day is a Sunday
but we can work if we care to. Thanks to the pleasure of
retirment.

If you can’t retire from farming without suffering se¬
vere withdrawal pains, you need a fix. The only drugless
fix I know of is to fix yourself up with a mini farm, let’s say
about eight acres. Be sure it’s located between a couple of
wheat fields, so you will have the right scenery to survive
retirement.

What’s neat about mini farming, retirement style, is
that you can have your cake and eat it too. There is no
overworking of yourself, like during the slave days of
necessity.

To keep that correct farm feeling goosing through
your veins during the slowdown, you will need two mini
combines and a tractor, (not that big old thing) Then saw
off part of your cultivators, plows, etc. to fit your fun size
farm. Keep your old straw baler, but shorten the hitch up
a bit. Be sure and grow some certified seed. The extra re¬
sponsibility will perk up your sagging retired eyes.

Sound silly? The heck it does! That’s exactly what
the Howard Stormos are doing on their eight acres. Their
mini farm holds a good size chunk of grain land, a mod¬
ern ranch house, a machine shed, and a mini Knott’s
Berry Farm. The Stormo and Son partnership berry
farm, helps Howard and Bernice fill their retirement
hours between grain harvests.

Stormo’s six acres of grain land is about the right size
for supplying the best kind of atmosphere to keep any re¬

tired farmer hooked on farming under control. To make a
big deal out of mini farming, milk it for what it’s worth.

Howard wanted their heavy stand of certified barley
harvest to last two days instead of a one day affair. So he
and Mike didn’t start up their two six foot, overhauled
combines ’til the heat of the day had passed.

To get into that post harvest feeling, Stormo’s acres
again came to the rescue. The field had tons of first grade
straw that needed baling. It all adds up to a bit of supple¬
ment to that Social Security check.

Howard was a former Indian Creek farmer, and ma¬
chinery parts man, so he has the ability of fixing up a lot
of things that need fixing.

Stormos also have time left over to help the Doc
Thompson family with the lively ‘Washington Lighting
Sticks’ enterprise, but that’s another story. One need not
lose work skills, unless that person can live without carry¬
ing on their past environment.

What’s interesting is that Stormos found room on
their teeny dryland farm to start up the locally known
raspberry farm. As a young fellow working on a berry
ranch, I got hooked on berries of every kind. After a long
winter of drought with no fresh berries, I’m in need of a
good berry fix. Bernice comes to the rescue by calling us
up to let me know the raspberries are ripe. Stormo’s ber¬
ries carry me safely over the hump ’til fresh peaches are
tasty enough to eat.

What intrigues me is, when berry picking time ar¬
rives, the Stormos put up about the same size sign, ad¬
vertising berries that Walt Knott used to hang up on his
old berry shed.

The Happy Haymaker

I inherited a father-in-law who is 91 years old. iNot
really a big deal, except he is not staggering around in
some nursing home. So far nature has graced this old
guy by letting his aging process meander along at a slow
speed. He works every day except in winter when there is
a blizzard, then he just feeds his cows.

Great grandfather, Ed Deppner, has never had a
physical examination in his whole life, except in 1918
when World War One army guys wanted to know if Ed
was physically fit enough to be shot at. However, he did
lose a mouthful of teeth, but is going very well on what
stray teeth he has left.

Mr. Deppner has made his living the hard way, by
earning small profits from a scab rock stock ranch. His im¬
plements were simple, and his laboring hours required
lots of back breaking work. He lives a humble life, and is
an honest man. His conscience won’t allow him the privi¬
lege to become even just a little bit greedy. Ed never
showers himself with luxuries, but gift checks flow easily
from his hands to relatives when it comes Christmas and
birthday times.

Since his wife is laying up in the Rocklyn cemetery,
Sugar and Edwina Mielke spread out a weekly dinner in
his bachelor type kitchen. The rest of the time Ed eats
only what his slim body needs.

Years ago, this poor immigrant from Poland took in
Sugar and married her mother, then successfully raised
three more kids. Ed has been putting up hay years before
he plunged into matrimony and is still at it to this day. His
hay patches now consist of Rocklyn proper and along the
railroad tracks that extend out to his old ranch.

Truly, Ed Deppner is a tough old bird. It’s the physi¬
cal activities that keep this 91 year old guy going. He
knows it, and that’s why he keeps right on mowing hay,
and stuffing it down his cows in measured doses.

The haying season weather this year was a scorcher
for Ed. Under his tight work clothes beats an old sea¬
soned heart that is busy pushing blood around in search
of some cool body spots. A sip from a plastic jug of water
that sets on the hot gear box of Ed’s haying tractor seems
to take care of his evaporation needs.

Years of usage has hardened great grandfather’s
bones to where he can take the jolts that his tractor dishes
out when it bounces over the badger holes, and other
bone crunching obstacles. Usually old Ed uses a third of
his daily stored up energy trying to start his hand cranked
vintage tractor. If his day is a lucky one, he and his tractor
can make lots of grass, and alfalfa hay. When mechanical
failure takes over, Ed usually sings one of his favorite
tunes. Lately he has become quite hoarse. In spite of all
the hot weather, and a balky tractor, Ed’s hay patches fin¬
ally got mowed down. But that brings up another prob¬
lem that great gradfather has to face. His hay truck is
also a vintage variety. The two front fenders on the truck
have been caved in from years of working on the motor.
Ed did manage to nurse the truck with its first load of hay
to within 18 feet of the small stack that he had started
with the aid of a wheelbarrow and a pitchfork.

I have just made a number of trips over to my father-
in-law’s place, and I still can’t find out why he can’t get
the truck any closer to the stack than 18 feet. It’s em¬
barrassing! I thought I knew how to make any motor

A 1917 photo of Rocklyn’s old railroad section house, where great-grandpa Ed Deppner now resides all by himself.

The happy haymaker working on his tractor.

come to life. Finally, George Mielke came to the rescue
with a spare truck.

However, Ed is a pleasant guy to work with when
you have plenty of time. Having a sharp mind, he tells in
detail, past events and all the troubles he experienced
throughout his long life as a haymaker. Ed doesn’t bark
out a lot of naughty words when things go wrong. His ha¬
bit to sing little ditties, wards off any man-made stress.

Father-in-law stays happy throughout the week. He
is a very sincere man, but when Sunday comes, he wor¬
ries too much about religion. You have to be a pretty
sharp preacher to outsmart him on answers to his ques¬
tions that are impossible to answer. But if you are a deep
down fundamentalist, I guess you have that right when
you live in a world of the Supernatural.

Still Ed loves best of all his simple life on earth, until
his dying day will take him away. Even with his doctrinal
thinking, the safety of the great beyond is just his last re¬
sort.

The Hazards of Rocklyn’s First Tractor

In the fall of 1927, an inexperienced teenager saw
pictures in a farm magazine where power from tractor
wheels were being used for pulling purposes. An obses¬
sion hit him. He wanted a tractor in front of his plows,
and other things, instead of horses. There was no way to
be happy without a tractor. He talked his dad into mort¬
gaging the farm.

The half-size farm did have enough value to guaran¬
tee a 15-30 tractor. It was the biggest one International
Harvester Company made at that time. It took weeks be¬
fore it arrived on a flatcar.

One special day, there it was! A shiny new tractor
setting next to the Davenport depot. While dad was busy
putting all the wheel lugs into the back of our old Essex, I
was pouring water into the empty radiator. It took a lot of
cranking before we found out there was no gas in the
tank.

The tractor was steered down the road to where it
was going to spend the rest of its life. Before reaching
home, Jack Telford flagged me down. He wanted to
know if I really intended to farm with that rig, and what
was I going to use for traction when the ground got
soggy.

The next day, horseman Bandy stopped in to let me
know that this tractor could be of some usage back in the
corn country. Butterfly feeling hit my stomach, as lugs
and rims were being installed to the tractor wheels.

The first job the tractor had to do, was to pull some
plows. It was quite a sweaty job steering around all those
fence posts, as the field was being opened up. Clumps of
neighbors began to show up, and were waiting by the
starting corner of the field. They were wanting to see how
the stubble was getting plowed without the aid of live
horse-power.

After clutching the tractor out of gear, it was like
parking in a group of critics. A ray of encouragement

came over me when Herman Maurer said he wouldn’t
mind having a tractor like mine if he had all level land.

The rest didn’t think that way. “It will pack the soil
too much”, they said. Also it burns gasoline. Hay is chea¬
per. “If I run out of hay, I can get my fields plowed on
stubble pasture”. Fred Koch asked, “Why do you want to
take on more farm expenses?” He stated he had to tear
down his combine motor every season, after averaging
only three weeks of running. The rings and bearings were
shot by then.

In those days, good air cleaners were not invented
yet. Homemade ones usually had to do. The Fred Koch
Special, was a gunny sack placed over the intake pipe. It
did keep out straw and other flying objects, allowing only
clean dust to enter the motor.

Before the year was out, lo and behold! My tractor
started making smoke instead of power. All that unfil¬
tered dust had ground the rings down to a thin image of
themselves. Even the lowest gear was too painful for the
dusted out motor. The tractor did manage to limp back to
the barn, where it was parked in the back stall for an over¬
haul job.

The partly finished field caused Quentin Maurer to
ask why I took a vacation from farming. I don’t remember
how I answered that question. It must have been a vague
one. After all, it was sort of a classified secret to save the
reputation of future tractors. Later, an air intake pipe was
installed, reaching eight feet above tractor height. A de¬
cent air filter was then bolted on.

Anyway, the seeds for future tractors finally got
planted out here at Rocklyn. The next year Charley !<\ x
got antsy and swapped his string of nags for a Holt 30
tractor. Soon to follow was the Grob orothers. For a spell,
the great depression checked the flow of tractors taking
over the farms. Finally when Roosevelt pulled the right
economic levers, sounds of tractors could be heard in
about every field.

Oh, My Aching Back

A lot of us natives were born during the phasing out
period of the stationary thrashing outfits. That style of
thrashing left a lot to be desired. However, all the sacks of
wheat were sowed up on the spot, and piled in rows to be
hauled to market at a later date.

But when the combines took over, it scattered the
wheat sacks all over the field. It was caused by the sack
sower not having a place to store the filled sacks. When it
got a little crowded on the sowing platform, the sack
sower would trip a playground type of slide, releasing the
few sacks that would come crashing through the stubble,
to land right smack on the ground.

Of all the foolish things to do! Why even in those
days, a team and a bulk wagon, or an old time truck
could have picked up a good size dump of bulk wheat
right from the combine. But since they didn’t do such
smart things then, all those scattered 130 and 140 pound
sacks had to be picked up from ground level by human
back power.

True, we now have huge piles of wheat on the
ground, but do have scientific ways of picking the wheat
up. That is, whenever anyone wants the surplus stuff.

In the days of not knowing better, I spent a season
during harvest picking up wheat sacks. Every pound of
wheat that was raised on my farm, and Orlin Maurer’s
had to be lifted onto an old high bed truck. Many of the
sacks weighed more than I did. Sure, a lot of big guys
performed this feat without hollering.

The results? As an old guy now, I realize I’m paying
for my youthful folly by lifting scads of wheat sacks. In my
case it didn’t promote a strong back. I now have to de¬
pend on running, swimming, and special exercises to
help keep my back from making a cripple out of me. I’ve
learned to do a lot of grunting, and very little lifting when
asked to help carry something heavy.

There is evidence that lifting wheat sacks can either
make or break a person. Example: Years ago, ‘Wolf
Boyk, and his future brother-in-law, Ralph Brown, were
taking in wheat at the Rocklyn warehouse. Both were
models of physical fitness. Between loads they would
practice basketball shots in the hollow end of the ware¬
house. During midday I complained to the two athletic
minded guys that lifting wheat sacks could in time wreck
us. Wolf insisted it was making him stronger. He wanted
to bet he could lift a 130 pound sack over his head. It was
worth a small wager, so I got my movie camera from the
truck to register the momentous event. The feat was

achieved, but Wolf Boyk developed an instant hernia that
eventually sent him to the hospital.

Of course, there are exceptions for those that suc¬
cessfully handled wheat sacks throughout their weight lift¬
ing years. Old Ed Deppner, Rocklyn’s well known hay¬
maker, is the only person I know personally who spent a
very large part of his life lifting wheat sacks. Even though
it took its toll, he still has a very workable back.

Mr. Deppner started piling sacks of wheat in 1915,
when Mike Maurer, Ed Boyk, and Herman Bursch built a
warehouse at the Rocklyn station. Deppner’s part time
summer job outlasted five wheat buying managers.
Throughout those years of devoted work, Deppner has
lifted thousands upon thousands of sacks of wheat. His
energy helped build many wheat piles, both inside, and
outside the warehouse. Especially in 1923 when the out¬
side stack of sacked wheat outstretched the warehouse by
twice its length, and four times as tall as Ed Deppner.

How come this 91 year old guy survived those years
of lifting wheat sacks? I don’t know. However, he now
complains that his neck hurts when he turns it. It could be
from looking behind to see what his dump rake is doing
when he is raking hay. Keeping his head forward when
feeding his cows this winter should remedy that.

In the days of the sacked wheat era there were many
like Ed, piling sacks to the rafters in warehouses, then
loading them back into boxcars, with a cart that held five
sacks at a time. The Rocklyn Farmers Warehouse was
just a good example of many such long shed like build¬
ings that dotted the railroad side tracks.

Brains began replacing backs when the bulk wheat
method became popular. Then the supermarket kind of
elevators took over. Now if you happen to be a weakling,
you can still get a job at the elevator, or as a wheat
hauler. All you need is a good thumb to push a button
with, or fingers strong enough to grip small hydraulic lev¬
ers.

A few years before the ending of the sacked wheat
days at Rocklyn, another company took over the defunct
warehouse. Later bargain notices were sent out to those
that were interested in the remnants of this landmark.

The Hardy brothers salvaged the rather modern
‘weigh the whole works’ outdoor scales. Like scavengers,
the rest of us picked out what we would benefit from, and
a good bonfire took care of cremating the remains. Even
the ashes seemed to have disappeared by the time the
new elevator started placing wheat in its cement multi
storage bins.

Elections

It’s neat to have political elections every once in a
while. It stimulates the mind when local candidates come
up to talk to you. Half of them make you feel funny when
you know deep inside that you are not going to vote for
them.

One time Sugar fell for a nice guy that was running
for a local job. At about the same time, I met and liked his

opponent. It doesn’t make sense going our separate ways
voting for these two, as we would be canceling each other
out. What to do? I had ’til that Tuesday to decide whether
Sugar’s reasons come first, or party loyalty.

It was too bad that this Creston steam plant issue
caused so much emotional steam. Inflammable debates
ran rampant. I’m a nut about good environment. But you

have to have proven evidence that fumes from tall chim¬
neys will hurt precious plants, and other living things.

In 1916 there were no steam plant projects to get ex¬
cited over. Still things got pretty warm one fall afternoon
at the Rocklyn General Store, when a political battle
broke out.

In those days, Republican presidents were treating
everyone pretty good. If it weren’t for Henry Kuch, the
Democrats would have become extinct out here at Rock¬
lyn.

Teddy Roosevelt had made people happy with his
manic free swinging style of running the country. Big fat
Taft was a harmless and likeable president. The only rea¬
son Democrat Wilson made the grade in 1912 was that
the Republican party became split. Teddy ran on the Bull
Moose ticket. That caused Taft to get too few votes. Wil¬
son was then able to enter the White House.

Four years later, Wilson had a scare when he ran
against Charles Hughes. Election night Charles went to
bed thinking he was President. But the next day, Califor¬
nia sneaked Wilson back into the oval room.

Now let’s go back to that neighborhood General
Store on the Saturday before the Wilson-Hughes elec¬
tion. No physical violence occurred, but words flew thick
and fast. George Sweezy appeared to be the only level
headed farmer there. He tried to be the balance wheel of
reason. My dad’s only defense for switching parties was
that Wilson promised to keep us out of the war that was
brewing in Europe. Mike Maurer who knew a lot about
politics, tried to out shout everyone. Henry Kuch, the
only registered Democrat there that afternoon, took a
verbal beating.

Most Rocklyn citizens left one at a time, after shout¬
ing their final view points. None stood long enough by
the door to wait for replies.

That night, several political signs were torn off tele¬
phone poles. The following Sunday at church, the flock
was wondering who in their midst was the one that tore
‘Vote for Wilson’ signs down. The guilty one must never
have figured it was a sin big enough to cause trouble from
above.

It’s been half a century since Roosevelt beat the
socks off of Alfred Landon. By the way, did you know
that old Alfred is still alive?

During the Landon-Roosevelt election time, a lot of
small town excitement hapened to me. Getting ready to
vote for the second time for Roosevelt was a big deal.
From the primaries on, each Wednesday night after tak¬
ing in a talkie movie at the old Talkington Theatre in Da¬

Attending the Dry Land Field Day at Lind on June
13, 1985, brought back memories of other guided tours
at this Research Station. It was 50 years ago when I first
visited this spot for educational purposes. I remember
that year well. I felt quite mature because I became uncle
for the first time. It got me to thinking that I was getting
past my prime, and certainly old enough to get married. I
had no intention of staying celibate for life.

venport, a group of us political critics would meet at Doc’s
Service Station. The ‘meeting of the minds’ room was lo¬
cated between the toilets, and a row of hand cranked oil
pumps.

Those spit and argue meetings usually consisted of
Wilmer Boyk, ‘Doc’ Rude, ‘Dutch’ Van Hook, and old
Ken Smith. They represented the firm believers in the
Landon’s remedies for curing the depression. The liberals
were some new comers to Davenport, who were shocked
at the town’s conservatism.

It was there that I fell prey to my first, and only gam¬
bling venture. The evil of betting raised its ugly head
when our Republican friends were mislead by an unrelia¬
ble literary magazine pool, that was predicting a Landon
victory. Going back not so far to the more exciting politi¬
cal days of the past. The Truman-Dewey contest, and the
Eisenhower-Stevenson race to the White House were the
last election night parties were held around Rocklyn.
Just before the Truman-Dewey election night in 1948,
we had just finished undertaking the first extension on
our house. It was named the ‘front room,’ in memory of a
room that was missing since the house was built.

So a semi-open house, and election return party was
in order. The placing of three radios had to be put in strat¬
egic places. Sugar scattered junk food throughout the
house for nervous neighbors to chew on. Soon the house
was full of Republicans, Democrats, Fundamentalists,
and those that didn’t give a darn.

For excitment, the Truman-Dewey contest for the
White House was one show that was hard to beat. Most
of our crowd that night loved Truman. He was a man of
strong convictions. After doing what he figured should be
done, he let the political chips fall where they chose. He
not only countered a nationwide Republican swing, but
had to overcome split-ups in his own party.

Old Senator Thurmond didn’t like Truman advocat¬
ing civil rights for blacks, so he jumped the fence, and
dragged with him over a million and a half southern vot¬
ers to the States Rights party. Also Wallace did the same
thing when he ran off with the same number of voters to
form the Progressive party. All because he couldn’t see
eye-to-eye with Truman’s anti-Soviet stand.

All those happenings caused Truman to jump on a
back end of a train, and take his problems to the people.
By so doing, he upset all those who had forecast his cer¬
tain defeat.

Truman? What a guy! No wonder Reagan and Mon¬
dale used him as an example of a great American during
their political campaigns.

At Lind

Since nothing that June turned my head romanti¬
cally, a maiden trip to this Research Station was in order,
as it kept my mind on farming. There were 50 to 60 far¬
mers that arrived from every direction. It was called visi¬
tors day then. We toured all over this experimental farm.
They showed us improved farm methods, and new varie¬
ties of grains that would shell out more wheat.

At noon it was sort of a homey affair. I believe it was

Field Days

some Grange ladies that served us a semi-dinner from a
wood burning cook stove. The doughnuts could have
been imported from Lind.

Most of the afternoon was spent in discussion. In
those days plant ailments were scarce. Heavy stands of
wheat had not arrived yet to bring in a host of diseases.
The year of 1935 was one of the dryest in the history of
the station. It zonked out the spring wheat, but the winter
wheat plots that were seeded early yielded above normal,
which was at that time a surprise to the average late seed¬
ers.

Fertilizer then was only known as a waste product
from a lot of horses and cows. Once a year the manure
was hauled out, and scattered so the barn could once
again be seen, and put back into more efficient use. An
old bulletin printed in the early 1920s stated that there
never would be a need for adding nitrogen in the dry land
farming belt of eastern Washington. If that prophecy
would have been right, there probably would have been
no surplus wheat, or no fertilizer dealers, and maybe no
farmers.

It’s interesting to note that back when the station got
into gear, they experimented with press wheels on drills.
Example: four year averages without press wheels, the
wheat yielded 8.6 bushels. With press wheels, 9.1 bu¬
shels, an increase of half a bushel an acre! A big deal in
those days of low spring wheat yields. It did lead to the
beginning of advanced seeding methods.

This experimental station has the lowest rainfall of
any research station devoted to dry land research in the
United States. For years a lot of us local farmers figured if
a new breed of wheat was able to survive at Lind, it
should spring forth with surprising yields where rainfall
had a tendency of falling in heavier doses.

Seems like you don’t have to be in physical shape to
get a job at this Dry Land Station. They got a sign up in
the office stating: “This department requires no physical
fitness program. Everyone gets enough exercise by jump¬
ing to conclusions, flying off the handle, carrying things
too far, dodging responsibilities, and pushing their luck.”

Dick Hoffman from Rocklyn is the farm manager for
this station. He is in excellent physical condition regard¬
less of their no health program. Research Technologist,
Dick Nagamitsu is still one of the main cogs in the wheel
of things at this place. A large subsoiler, and a heavy duty
fertilizer rig, both Wilbur, Wash., products, were lined up
by a huge eight tired tractor. A far cry from the. farm
equipment I saw there 50 years ago when a tractor of
proper size was on display. That early day tractor could
be sheltered nicely from the sun by the shadow of today’s
four wheel monster.

The new Sheaf Building easily held the 350 tour*
guests that were there. The loading docks went straight
out from the hall, serving as a walk-in to the truck beds,
where we were hauled away like cattle to the field plots.
All the varieties grown in those plots have a history of
how they will respond to certain growing conditions. The
trick is to figure out which new variety will make you hap¬
py be supplying the most bushels for you.

The next stop was something new. A Russian thistle
plot with rows of wheat in between. Some farmers down
there must grow a combination of wheat and thistles. This

plot gave them the idea of whether to spray or not to
spray for the Russians. There is a chemical for cheat grass
control in wheat. The name is too long to spell. It’s tricky
to use successfully. The field tour speaker said he gets
very emotional when the chemical wipes out the cheat.

To till or not to till was not much of an issue for the
farmers in that locality. The crop was devastating on the
no-till wheat. What puny wheat and weeds that were left
wouldn’t supply food very long for the field mice that
have moved in on this patch of unmolested soil.

There were 20 plots of barley and spring wheat this
year that are trying to finish out their growth under tough
dry conditions. None has given up the ghost as of June
13. Information was dished out on how to handle para¬
dise crops.

In recent years, a wheat queen has been added to
the noon program. It was a privilege to visit with retired
plant breeder, Orville Vogel. Someone mentioned that
when times are not so hot, crowds as large as this one
usually turn out.

Alan Pettibone, Washington State Director of Agri¬
culture was the guest speaker. The 12,000,000 bushels
of wheat that are laying on the ground in the State isn’t
such a hot idea, according to Pettibone. He sounded logi¬
cal when he referred to getting the strength of the dollar
in line with world wide trade. He’s disgusted with anyone
using embargos for political purposes. Ten years from
now, things could be turned around, but that’s a heck of a
long time to wait.

What’s the advice from the Lind district that year?
Well, keep your nose to the grindstone, and hope to gosh
that the world will start needing more wheat before you
go broke.

At the Dry Land Research Station this year, 1986, it
was educational going around and getting into group dis¬
cussions. One thing everyone agreed on is that it takes a
lot of money to farm now days. You got to go out and
make more money than you spend, or spend less money
than you make. Another thought that got tossed around
was that a sound economy cannot be based on anything
it cannot control.

This year, no farm can safely be considered a home
for the financially shaky farmer. Tillers of the soil have
strong emotional ties to their work and place, ties that can
only be broken at a high psychological cost. During the
depression days of 55 years ago, the thought of being
kicked off the farm gave me the jitters.

Most farmers attending the Dry Land Station this
year didn’t look too bad for the wear and tear they are
going through. But you can spot the ones about to go
broke by the way they look and act.

I spotted a depressed farmer on the second test plot
we stopped at. He was looking at the varieties of wheat
with empty eyes. When I asked him a question, he just
grunted. When the question was repeated, concentration
returned after he reached down to snap off a wheat head.
Instead of answering my question he said, “What differ¬
ence does it make, better varieties just add to the
surplus.” He smiled temporarily, knowing his answer was
just an expression of feeling helpless.

There certainly is more than one rookie farmer

caught with his pants down. After the morning tour, I got
to visiting with a retired farmer that I usually see at Lind.
He told me he turned his lease over to his son-in-law sev¬
eral years ago. Son-in-law was able to get quick loans at
the drop of a hat. He hadn’t learned to creep before he
walked. Instead he started out in overdrive so he could
catch up with the established farmers. Now since wheat
prices have gone to pot and last year’s crop wasn’t so hot,
son-in-law is starting to hint for father-in-law to come to
the rescue. But here is father-in-law’s problem; if he tries
to save son-in-law’s farm set-up, it would endanger his
hard earned savings.

Finally it was time to go inside the large metal build¬
ing for the noon program. Once again this year proved to
be a day worth spending at the Experiment Station. Jim
Walesby from Almira, president of the Wheat Association
had loads of interesting things to say. Another speaker
was asked to say something positive. His answer was,
“I’m glad to be here. Have you any questions?” Michelle
Nelson, Washington Wheat Queen is a cutie. A farmer
told her, “I face the end of my rope, but I’ll tie a knot and
will try to hold on a little longer.”

Sam Smith, President of Washington State Univer¬
sity, looked very much like a farmer with a Wheat Grow¬
ers cap setting on top of his head. Sam bragged on the
research they are doing and stated we have to move our
produce. “Japan works on its production problems, while
we like to guess, and go for broke.” So says President
Smith. While he was at it, he also added to his speech,
“Farmers have to face things in a business way...We
need the best of students from college to carry on the fu¬
ture load.”

The field tour continued into the afternoon. What
plots looked too good to be real? Well, it was where part

of Lind’s ancient volcanic soil got soaked with lots of deep
well water, and a large dose of nitrogen. Except for the
expense of irrigation, and the trouble of getting all that
extra wheat to market, there is very little for the irrigator
to worry about, like roots running out of moisture and
shriveled kernels.

The dry land farmer doesn’t have it so lucky. He has
to look up to the sky for his moisture and a guy can get a
stiff neck from doing that. This year is no exception.
Usually in the fall it’s so dry down in Lind, moisture can
only be found way down there below the deep mulch. Al¬
though not the best yielder, Moro wheat is about the only
variety that can successfully find its way to the surface
without getting lost. A lot of fields around the station are •
seeded to Moro for that simple reason.

The volunteer cheat grass is doing exceptionally well
this year. It still has the habit of taking over wheat fields.
But the picture is different in the Palouse country. We
have been doing some running in that area and got to
look things over. If the weather behaves itself in the Pa¬
louse, there will be some mighty good crops harvested in
those crop covered, treeless mountains.

Familiar faces popped up here and there at Lind that
day. Well known Agronomist, Kenny Morrison looks real
good, after losing a small part of his body through surgery
so the rest of him could live. Retired wheat breeder, Or¬
ville Vogel looked OK too. Orville is still at it, matching
one dollar for every $20 donated by growers to replace
dwindling Federal money for wheat research.

Let’s dream that by next year all those stacks of
wheat have been shipped out. And that every farmer that
was going broke, didn’t quite make it to the end of the
rope. After all, if you are molded to be a farmer, it’s hard
to change horses in the midstream of life.

The Flying Model T

While visiting with the Mielke brothers, and Richard
Hardy at the Harrington Barbeque, we got to talking
about the Russians shooting down that big plane with a
lot of passengers inside. Finally the conversation drifted
to the early day passenger planes. George told about the
first sample ride he took in an enclosed aircraft. It was in a
tri-motored Ford plane that came to Harrington to make
a few bucks. The paying natives received the thrill of find¬
ing out what it was like to be lifted off the ground.

This Ford airplane was the Model T of the airways
50 some years ago. It was made out of corrugated sheets
of tin, cut to the right size to make a plane that would
hold 16 passengers. A motor was hung on each wing.
The third motor was placed right in front of the pilot. This
type of plane was nicknamed the “Tin Goose.” Carl
Mielke said, “Everytime the plane returned to take up
more sight-seers, the pilot had to put some oil into each
of the motor’s reservoirs.”

A few years before this aviation scoop at Harrington
took place, this same Tin Goose took up thrill seekers
from a stubble field near Davenport. The price for the Da¬
venport plane ride was discriminating. The pilot and his
helper drug out a scale, and charged one cent a pound
for each live weight passenger. A skinny person could get

on the plane for about a buck, while a fat man had to pay
up to three dollars for the same belly tickling ride.

In the years of 1930 and 31, an air passenger route
was laid out. Those old planes flew low over Davenport,
Rocklyn, south of Wilbur, Coulee City, etc. as they
winged their way to Seattle. A landing stop was in order
just before the plane flung itself over the Cascades.

During the Hoover administration there were no ap¬
propriations handed out for emergency landing fields, so
expenses were kept down to bare bones. Emergency
landing strips were mapped out about every 40 miles. A
guy with a car would stop in at a farmer’s place and ask if
he could use a certain stubble field for such landings.
When permission was granted, the flying company’s re¬
presentative would angle his car and bounce across the
field, stopping to pick up rocks that could be a threat to
landing wheels. He then would sight across the field with
his naked eyes, and place red flags on each end of the
instant made emergency runway.

By the Rocklyn corner, Fred Magin’s stubble field
was laid out in such a fashion. These landing fields were
on the portable side. Farmers’ summer fallow system
caused that.

Except for being in an overhauled condition, this
early day air line used the same make of planes the barn¬
stormers used, the tri-motor Ford. Even though times
were tough in those days, the Tin Goose usually was
loaded to the brim with 16 passengers. No cocktails were
served, so everybody had to wait nervously ’til their de¬
stination was reached. Lunch was served from what you
put in your overcoat pocket before you left home.

Those corrugated sheets of thin metal made the “Tin
Goose” a noisy bugger to ride in. However, for sitting
purposes, the plane had comfortable wicker chairs, and a
washroom that must have held a porta-potty.

The three flying Fords that made their home in Spo¬
kane had rough and short lives. If a plaque had been
erected for the threesome, the arrival date would have
shown 1928 and the all gone date 1933. The first Tin
Goose only survived two weeks. Nov. 1928 it flew down
to Colfax to help dedicate the new airport. Like the flying
Goose that visited Harrington, it also took up paid
passengers that day.

The next morning the Tin Goose headed back to
Spokane, where it found a lot of thick fog down close to
the earth. The guy that was flying this rig, got tired of
waiting for the fog to go away, so he decided to plow
through it. But he plowed the plane too deep, causing
the Tin Goose to crumble and roll up into a pile. Two
passengers lived by bouncing clear of the wreckage and
were able to tell how the pilot took a chance and learned
it was the wrong thing to do.

Nick Mamer, the daddy of Spokane aviation, pio¬
neered the air route between Spokane and Seattle with
the two remaininq Tin Geese. He named them the “West
Wind I” and the “West Wind II.”

Mamer’s brain storm got started at the wrong time.

In 1929 the stock market crash didn’t help him and his
backers one bit. The depression that followed was of no
help either.

When the Northwest Airways moved in from St.
Paul with a fat mail contract tucked under its arm, it put
an end to Nick Mamer’s pioneer Model T air route. Nick
then sold his two flying Fords, and got a job with North¬
west Airways. Years later, the invaders became known as
the Northwest Airlines.

During the height of Mamer’s flying glory, one of his
Tin Gooses would fly over our house every morning at
about 8:25. If dad and I hadn’t been boxing fans at that
time, I never would have had a picture of the flying
Goose passing over our ranch.

My dad’s only sport interest was keeping track of all
the heavyweight boxing champions that dated back to
John L. Sullivan days, and up through Jack Dempsey’s
fighting years. The mighty Dempsey retired after his last
Tunney fight in 1928. In June 1931, Jack came to Spo¬
kane to referee a fight at the Natatorium Park.

It was a must that dad and I go see Jack Dempsey in
person, so we could look him over while he refereed.
Don Frazer and another pugilist were pounding heck out
of each other. That night I found out that boxing was a
brutal and dangerous sport. But my dad had enough
cave man in him to enjoy it.

At the ringside, Dempsey’s side-kick announced that
he and Jack were taking the West Wind plane in the
morning, to Seattle for more refereeing dates.

The next morning found me waiting on the cellar
hump with my Brownie camera. No, Jack Dempsey
didn’t wave at me as the plane passed over our house.
But he was sitting up there on a wicker chair, listening to
the rattling sounds of the old Tin Goose.

A Bit Of Porcupine History

At a boat show in Spokane, it was interesting listen¬
ing in on a salesman trying to stuff a rocket type boat
down a potential customer’s neck. This salesman was tell¬
ing the guy he would have twice as much fun if he had a
speedier boat. He was advised to trade in his old boat for
one that would go zoom all over the lake. Good gosh!
This middle aged guy may enjoy just seeing the lake go
by in slow motion.

Since we all have to wait a bit before jumping into
the water or to watch happy skiers being pulled around
on our own man made lake, how about going over a little
history that made all this summer fun possible? In case
some of you young ones don’t know it, there are two riv¬
ers buried under Lake Roosevelt. These two bodies of
flowing water didn’t have much to do for eons, except to
carry run off water to the ocean. Then smart guys came
along and made all that moving water do great things.
One of the good side effects for our territory was the mak¬
ings of Frocupine Bay, Fort Spokane, Keller Ferry and
that semi-desert show place, Spring Canyon. Also a lot of
mini beaches that sort of sprung up on their own.

The creation began a little over a half century ago.
At that time, the government got a hold of a lot of help,
and raised the Spokane and the Columbia Rivers as if by
magic. The water rose to just the right height to form
those wonderful inland beaches. Now let’s take Porcu¬
pine Bay to elaborate on, as its development was unique.

Verbal records show that early day boaters with their
one to three horse power motors came upon this spot.
They figured it was a darn nice place to park their boats,
and to stretch out on its sandy beach, after devouring a
basket lunch. How did the early explorers know this para¬
dise was Porcupine Bay? They didn’t ’til they saw some
porcupines waddling around.

Early landowners that joined this vast lake along
Porcupine Bay were only interested in taking a look from
the bluffs, and saying, “That’s a lot of water down there.”
Then they headed back to their farming or cattle produc¬
ing businesses.

But, there was one farmer out Harrington way, that
took more than one look. He was Herb Armstrong, a guy
that didn’t mind spending his own money to develop this
place. He fixed up the old trail-like road along the water
line, so the landlocked swimmers, and picnickers could
enjoy this spot. Also Herb and his friends built some
wooden boat docks, and stuck a pipe deep enough into
the ground to bring forth some sandy water. For a little
privacy, a couple of out-houses were erected.

A few of us early day users asked this question: “Will
Porcupine Bay ever grow into a nationally known Federal
Park, or will it remain a secluded spot for the chosen
few?”

Again Herb expanded his energy and came to the
rescue. He started pestering the Parks Dept, to visit Por¬
cupine. The idea was to sell them on developing this
spot. They were reluctant to have it checked out as they
just got through finishing Fort Spokane Recreational
Area, and figured this addition wouldn’t be supported by
the vacationing public.

But Herb kept the pressure on. When it looked like
he was going to get thrown out on his ear, the park guys
finally promised to phone the big wheels at headquarters.
A Sunday date was then set aside for their inspection.

Herb immediately sent out emergency notices to all
of us that used the shores of Porcupine. He told us to get
down there early Sunday and help fill the beach with lots
of people. Boaters also responded. They were buzzing
their boats up to the shoreline long before the big wheels
arrived. A couple of clunked out boats were towed over
to fill in a bare spot.

All afternoon there was a waiting line in front of the
out-houses. Unnecessary repeaters were to show the
park guys how urgent it was to have new porcelain in¬
door toilets to sit on.

Even if it wasn’t ethical, the stunt was a success. The
Park Board appropriated all the money needed to match
the rest of the chain of Recreational Parks. It was neat to
have been blessed with the security of Park Supervisors
and well-trained life guards. The Park take-over encour¬
aged Herb Armstrong to build the now present day road
right into Porcupine’s parking lot.

In the beginning, Porcupine differed from the other
Federally regulated parks in that you could set up ‘squat¬
ters rights’, and stay ’til the snow flew if you so desired
which many seasonal campers did. Nature so arranged
Procupine that swimming, boating and camping are all
done in one spot. It was interesting to see how the habi¬
tual ones came as soon as school was out and took
choice spots by the water’s edge, then stayed all summer,
rent free.

Usually Porcupine Bay kids raised there during the
choice growing season were a healthy, happy bunch that
didn’t get into trouble, except for digging sand holes for
night strollers to stumble into.

Wally Sowers, a Spokane fireman commuted to
work so his family could have the whole season to enjoy

Usual scenes at Porcupine.

summer’s dog days at the Bay. That fall one of his daugh¬
ters, Jeannie, didn’t want to go back to the impersoal life
of city schools. She stayed with us so she could enjoy a
year of high school life, country style.

With so many semi-permanent residents taking over
Porcupine, it finally got to the point where campers were
beginning to slide into the lake. There were just too many
people wanting to enjoy what the Bay had to offer. First
come, first serve. A blockade had to be enforced. When
rules of limitation and fees were tacked up, sounds of up¬
setness could be heard around the Bay. However, most
of the old summer squatters realized their free days of
stays would forever disappear.

During the years our National Recreational Resorts
have been a retreat for interesting people. Porcupine was
no exception. A quite a few summers ago, a group of
Hungarian refugees sort of took over Porcupine on
weekends. How could that happen? Well, in a way the
Russians were responsible for it. These rebels got tired of
having the Russians sitting in their country. So they took
pot shots at them. But they were outnumbered, and had
to run like heck for their lives. The Catholic Diocese of
Spokane took them under their wings so they could sur¬
vive and find jobs.

When the Hungarians arrived in Spokane, they let
homesickness set in, ’til one of their leaders, Egon Bataii
found Porcupine Bay. The following weekend, most of
them made the maiden trip to this spot. These run-a-
ways were a tightly knit tribe, and lived all their lives near
a beautiful lake, so Porcupine was an excellent substitute.
Continually on weekends, these happy Hungarians
would load themselves down with arms full of picnic stuff,
tents and lots of bathing suits.

The Bataiis had two daughters that knocked your
eyes out. The rest came in various sizes and shapes. They
were all highly skilled in their trades. Egon painted por¬
traits that were more real than real. Through Gonzaga,

arrangements were made for Bing Crosby to set a spell
for Bataii so he could paint him with a pipe in his mouth
and a fishing hat on his head. When Jack Kennedy got
shot, Egon, with the aid of photos, painted a larger than
life size picture of our dead president. It was sent back to
widow Jaquelyn. She picked Egon’s portrait over other
entries, and it now is hanging in Kennedy’s show off
room. Egon also was the fussiest picture taker I ever saw.
Down at the Bay, he used special reflectors and always
looked in every direction before clicking his camera. The
enlargement he made of Sugar and me did look a little
shinier.

That summer, and the following year, it wasn’t all
Hungarian goulash that went on at Porcupine Bay. It was
love American style that the Bay contributed when a
lonely soldier from Boston asked, “Do you know any
good Catholic girls who like horses?” We did know of
one, and Sugar saw to it that Peter Caisse met Karen
Conrad on the swimming dock. It was all smiles and sun¬
shine. In a couple of days, we knew they were falling in
love, because they were pushing each other off the diving
dock.

When love became solid enough, the desire to get
married set in. A lot of us Porcupine patrons were invited
to their wedding and dance. In dedication to their happi¬
ness, Peter and Karen built a quaint lake home at Porcu¬
pine, which they and their kids occupy whenever possi¬
ble.

There are all kinds of special people that we Porcu-
piners get to meet seasonally. Some we knew long ago as
singles looking for summertime fun. Now we get to visit
with their grandchildren. Some left the water’s edge
when their kids grew up. Others took up building lake
homes. A few dropped out and settled in their own back
yards for summer fun. All in all, vacationing groups and
get togethers are still very much the summer scene at the
Bay.

Editors Old and New

Being an editor or a writer for a newspaper in a
country town is a challenging and sometimes a rewarding
opportunity. Weekly newspapers have given many a ta¬
lented person the experience needed for higher goals or
to become a local fixture. However, a person can’t help
but feel compassion for new editors. It’s not all gold that
glitters when it comes to pleasing everyone, when a stand
is taken on controversial issues. But there’s tffat satisfying
feeling that comes all over you when you write something
that you feel good about. True, weekly news has to be
written up whether it’s a scoop or not.

Of all the editors I got to know, I think the most uni¬
que guy was George (Scoop) Hering. He was Davenport
Times editor from the late 1920s and on through a good
chunk of the 1940s.

Contrary to the ambitious editors of today, Scoop
Hering didn’t want to go on to higher picking. When he
came down from chilly Alaska, a warmer small town
looked good to him, so he stayed around in our county
seat for the rest of his life. He was a likeable guy and al¬
ways carried a smile, but not quite the Will Rogers type.

However, he did have a sense of humor, and had a co¬
lumn called ‘Fish Tales’ where he made comments, and
poked fun at a lot of us folks.

Old Scoop thought I had odd ball habits because I
exposed a lot of skin when comfortable weather set in. I
was made the target for a lot of his ‘nature boy’ jokes. For
an editor, Scoop’s life style was also quite different from
the status quo. He never owned or drove a car and de¬
pended on his feet and catching rides for news gathering.
I doubt whether he would have lasted very long now days
without a press car. My brother-in-law hauled Scoop to
every important sport event in the state. He lived and ate
sports with such force that Davenport’s football field is
named after him.

Hering was a very fast typist, but I found out lately
that he never learned to change the typewriter ribbon. Ei¬
ther the publisher or an alert office girl did that chore for
him. Scoop also had it easier than our present day edi¬
tors. During the depression, the paper felt the squeeze of
hard times, so lots of weeks the press only printed four
pages.

It must have been on a Sunday when old Scoop
Hering passed away years ago. Sugar and I were out
walking in our Sunday clothes. Upon approaching his
home, we saw the undertaker rolling Scoop out for his
last ride down town.

Except for a more open minded society, problems of
pleasing the reading public were the same years ago as
they are now. For example: Over 50 years ago, Will Rog¬
ers played a role in a movie of a middle aged bachelor
that was the publisher and editor of a country town
weekly newspaper. It was a typical story of early town life
that held frozen ideas.

The editor got into trouble when he tried to help a
young lady out that fell in love with a banker’s son. A mis¬
understanding was keeping them apart. In the process of
helping, the editor stole the thunder of some of the
town’s righteous. They had already branded this young
lady for having had an affair with a no account guy when
she was of tender years. They were out to save the ban¬
ker’s son from this tainted girl, and didn’t want the editor
to encourage a mismatch.

Finally the outspoken ways of the editor caused a
blue nose lady to write a letter to his paper, condemning
him severely. Realizing his helping interference was going
down the drain, he invited himself to the church social
picnic.

With a smile on his face, the newspaper editor sized
up those staunch ladies, and began bragging how good
their pies were. This made them more pliable. They be¬
gan listening to him as he told how these two sweethearts
were made for each other, and needed the community’s
love and compassion.

In no time, these ladies took this couple on as sort of
a home missionary project. All that romantic atmosphere
woke up a flame in the old gals that was darn near out.
They started living a more exciting life with their hus¬
bands. In the process, the editor found himself a wife.

The moral is: It doesn’t hurt to mix with your critics.
It takes very little communication to restore the life line of
understanding.

Old Times Vs Now

It’s neat to record those old nostalgic days of the
past. An article in the Odessa Record written by Harold
Kern, so ably took one back to those inconvenient but
amusing days of long ago.

The only satisfaction I got out of living back then,
was growing up with the improvements. Before Public
Power got started, a small wind charger, and a couple of
car batteries was a big deal. If the dust storms didn’t stop
blowing, lights could then be turned on with just a pull of
the string.

The things you didn’t have in those days you didn’t
miss. Certainly no one would want to go back to the
‘good old days’. The next generation may say the same
thing about our present times.

In those pioneer days, if you had not made your
stake before rheumatism set in, it was the County Farm
for you. Better known as the ‘poor house*! If the poor
house was lucky enough to have a back porch filled with
chairs that overlooked a cemetery, the unfortunate could
sit in comfort, and see their destination.

Now days we can fight for good causes without get¬

ting a no-no signal. Blockheads that used to discriminate
against blacks, and various minorities, are now being
stopped in their tracks. Evolutionists and religionists are
now trying to live side by side without saying too many
naughty things about each other. Also women (bless
them) are being made equal with us guys.

There are no more ‘poor house’ fears. Social Secur¬
ity checks can just about take up the slack to keep senior
citizens independent. If you are old enough or look sort
of caved in, you can get discounts at certain eating places
and movies. Eligible Medicare patients can swim at the
YWCA for half price. It’s a good deal because it could
stretch out your life a little beyond the sunset.

Under the capitalistic system, some of us are fortun¬
ate enough to salt a little away, and live off the interest
that some poor devil has to pay to get a start in life. Be¬
sides that, a lot of us get bigger Social Security checks
than some of those that need it.

Even though there are adjustments that should be
made, we still have a lot of goodies that far outweigh the
‘good old days’.

A Comment

It’s rather amusing, after years of cussing the Demo¬
crats out for inventing a farm program, the Republicans
have come up with a much more liberal one. History has
proven that a farm program is necessary in times of
stress. Surplus is still surplus, no matter who is running
the country in Washington.

What did some of us farmers do with our first gov¬
ernment hand-outs of long ago? Most of the allotment
money went to protecting our farms with an appease¬
ment payment. What dough was left, and with the magic
of Sears catalog, a few mothers received washing ma¬
chines. Those miracle wash-day marvels came equipped

with built in gasoline motors, and all necessary manual
controls, including motorcycle type starting pedals. It
made the farmers wives very happy.

I remembered very well the first allotment checks
that were handed out in front of an old vacant bank in
Davenport. We were all happy, and looking like vultures,
as we waited for the bank door to open so we could grab
our agriculture checks. But we were not as happy as old
Gottieb Reinbold, a friendly, dedicated husband, and the
father of many children.

That day, to Mr. Reinbold the world seemed to look

a little rosier than usual. The government subsidy check
gave him hope of survival. The smoke from his ever pre¬
sent cigar seemed to have a more cheerful whirl. Upon
cashing his allotment check, he went next door, and paid
a long standing hardware debt. When I left him, he was

wishing he could afford a second hand Holt combine.

It was the last time I ever heard his rather loud voice
and rolling laughter. That evening, Gottlieb never made it
back to his farm and family. On his way home, a highway
accident took his life.

An Ordinary Week

When an ordinary week comes along, does it hold
any events that are worth storing in a person’s mind? Not
really, but even a dull stretch can supply a little food for
thought. I didn’t plan any excitement that week, except
to be nice to Sugar.

When the fall season arrives, it’s always time for Su¬
gar and I to go back to our weekly haunts in Spokane,
and start listening to a lot of smart things. That first Sun¬
day, as an illustration we were told of an old story, and it
reminded me that women never received a fair deal from
the beginning of the religious era. It was only an after¬
thought that woman was created. We are told she was
just put together as a helper, and to soothe the lonesome
male, and maybe for some other reasons.

There are one billion, 28 million Christians; 548 mil¬
lion Moslems, and nearly 17 million Jews. This means
there are one billion, 800 million human beings on this
planet that come under the sway of that Garden of Eden
story, which to my way of thinking was very unfriendly to
women.

As we all know, the inferior status of women has
slowly changed. The struggle for equal rights has impro¬
ved things quite a bit for the fair sex. Now female execu¬
tives are starting to show up all over the country. Some
young ladies have even become bank managers, like our
own local girl, Donna McDowell. Yes, you’ve come a
long ways, baby, since that certain fruit tree and snake
story incident.

In pioneer days did the wild west miss eastern
Washington? There were no rootin tootin shoot-em-up
towns around here. Last Tuesday Charley Farmer from
the coast stopped in. He thought I knew lots of tall tales of
early day shoot-outs. Sure there were spot incidents.
There were worthless stiffs around then, the same as
there are now. The abundance of horses back then bred
more horse thieves. As far as I know, there were no
groups of Indians in Lincoln county that got mad enough

to whip out their bows and arrows to punch holes in early
day settlers.

Charley was especially interested in the Harry Tracy
story. It looks like Tracy’s rock out in Cole’s pasture is fast
becoming a historical landmark. For the second time in a
row, a busload of curiosity seekers, and criminal buffs
journeyed to ‘the rock.’ Again they were given a guided
tour of Mr. Tracy’s closing hours of life. We repeaters are
beginning to respect ‘the rock’ for its isolated beauty, in¬
stead of its shootin’ records. The only respect that Tracy
had for ‘the rock’ was to use it to stop the bullets that were
traveling his way.

In the middle of that week, curiosity caused me to go
see what my 91 year old father-in-law was up to. He has
removed all the boulders from an old well casing. Now he
is busy dragging all those chest size rocks across the yard,
to where he is using them to make an outside cellar entr¬
ance to his retirement home.

That same week, my back only allowed me to finish
up a board walk, and deck project. For a birthday treat,
Ed’s Rocklyn and Davenport offspring took him over to
Entiat so he could see his other offspring.

The highlight of an ordinary week was topped off by
going to Odessa’s Deutsches Fest early morning run, and
all day outing with descendants of the Germans from
Russia. Odessa’s big bang is fast becoming an annual in¬
stitution. Rows of mobile homes came from every direc¬
tion. They found parking at Odessa for three days to be
eventful for entertainment, and socializing.

An hour long parade went past some buildings that
were nearly as old as the town. German sausage could be
seen, and had everywhere. If you liked beer and good
music played by people in leather shorts, there was a
large indoor space available for you. It was a bit noisy in
there, because when people get together, they start talk¬
ing a lot.

Will Rogers On Nicaragua

Sugar and I were fortunate to attend a slide show on
Nicaragua. It was held in Rev. Roger Barr’s basement.
The basement was built for a crowd larger than what was
there. However, it’s a good feeling to know that a local
minister is concerned about what’s going on in Central
America.

It got me to thinking, that 50 to 60 years ago, the
tune about Central America was played in the same key
as it is now. Our involvement seems to be without any
humanitarian aim.

For resource material, I like to thank Catharine Kelly

of Portland for sending every statement Will Rogers
wrote for the newspapers since 1924, and until his death
in 1935. His short comments are still printed daily in a
Portland paper.

On July 9, 1933, this is what Will Rogers wrote
about Nicaragua: “All you read about these days is that
this nation is sending their army into their neighbor’s back
yard. Did you know that we sent Marines into Nicaragua,
Haiti, San Domingo and Vera Cruz, Mexico, one time?
Anywhere in the world we could find a place where we
had no business, why, there is where we were.

Unitarians and other human people on a peace March
through downtown Spokane. Dr. Houffs wife, Patty Is now In
Nicaragua (Fall 1986).

“It was just during our adolescent period of life as a
nation, when we thought it was up to us to regulate the
affairs of everybody.”

The rest of Will Rogers comments circled around in
the late twenties and the early thirties. Quote: “Now Mr.
President, I am not a-hinting that we were wrong in this
particular case of Nicaragua. But when we start out trying
to make everyone have moral elections, why, it just don’t
look like we are going to have Marines enough to go a-
round. Course, we don’t need 'em here at home.”

“These countries don’t always look on a fellow that is
out in the hills as a bandit ... I tell you, if we could just

stay out of there and let Nicaragua alone, they might like
11

US.

“Did you ever notice how much more peaceful it is
when our Marines are at home instead of prowling a-
round?...I don’t think people have realized yet the most
important thing these transoceanic flights have brought
out, and that is the quicker transporting of our Marines to
other people’s wars.”

“Years ago transportation held us back, sometimes
we were a week late. But with airplanes there’s no ex¬
cuse. So our slogan is now: Have your wars wherever
and as far away as you want, but on the opening day we
will be there.”

It’s ironic how things are still about the same as in
Will Rogers’ days. In the case of El Salvador and Guate¬
mala, the question is: Is our security threatened because
people are fighting against a military government which
has kept them poor and hungry for over 50 years?

Instead of sowing death and destruction, we could
be contributing to cultural and economic progress in Nica¬
ragua.

Since Will Rogers’ days, we had a horrible world war.
and have now forgiven Germany and Japan for their evil
deeds. Also learned to love their Volkswagon and Toy¬
ota, but not the Russians. For our protection, I guess we
have to fear someone. It gives us an excuse to make
scads of destructive things. Maybe stopping such terrify¬
ing build-ups is too human.

Two Walt Kiks

Several summers ago Sugar and I joined up with a
large group of in-laws in Colville. They were on a family
tree investigating binge. It’s sort of interesting to know
where we came from, and how the rest of the scattered
relatives made out. Anyone snooping through family his¬
tory will find a few scars, and blights on the branches.

Usually we have more in common with our etas'"
friends than we do with relatives. Sure it’s sort of impor¬
tant to know what kind of stock we came from. It gives us
a chance to figure out why we act the way we do. Genes
do play a vital part. It’s hard to make a talker out of a per¬
son that is born not to be so noisy.

Environment plays an important role too. We can do
screwy things if we grew up where race prejudice runs
rampant. Especially when one feels inferior to others. Us¬

ing minority races as stepping stones to achieve great¬
ness, can make a person feel cocky and superior.

For example: There are two Walt Kiks running a-
round. No we are not clones, just cousins at about the
same age, but living in different countries. The other Walt
Kik lives in Germany, and got into a lot of trouble. Yours
truly was luckier. Partly because grandfather took a pow¬
der, and beat it over to God’s Country on a boat. He
didn’t care to fight made in Germany’ wars.

The Walt Kik in Germany seems to have gotten start¬
ed in life normally by eating lots of sour kraut and Ger¬
man sausage. But when he grew up, he somehow was
brain washed by a bunch of meanies. Walt then started
hating a lot of Jews who didn’t do him any harm, except
maybe take up some survival space. He started to deter-

iorate rapidly when he joined Hitler’s Home Guard.

Walt spent all his spending money on leather boots,
and a motorcycle. On weekends, he did a lot of practic¬
ing by playing big shot on his charged up motor bike. Be¬
fore World War Two set in, Sugar and I received a large
photo of him all dressed up in his uniform. He had an im¬
portant look in his eyes.

When we quit corresponding with Walt, my brother-
in-law took over the job of writing a couple of sassy letters
back to him. All letters from Walt ceased when
Germany’s holocaust got started. About a year after Ger¬
many caved in,.we got a letter from him. It was mailed
from Paris. Once again I had Freida Mielke translate it for
me.

Walt stated it took this long before they released him
from occupational prison. When the war ended, he was
caught being involved in a take over of a French village.
He had to prove he was just taking orders from higher
ups. Since they found him innocent as a babe (???) he
was on his way home. Walt must have joined the born
again trail, because he wanted me to read Psalms 119.
He claimed that chapter helped him.

Seven years ago, my sister went to Germany. While
there, she visited with cousin Walt. He had a toothache
that day, and was nursing a bad eye. He now owns his
own furniture factory, and has a contract to sell the Russi¬
ans a lot of tables, sofas, and stuff like that. — I wonder if
he still likes to ride motorcycles.

A patriotic feeling came cruising through my body. (1976)

No Baby Sitters

The year of 1916, baby sitters were scarcer than
hen’s teeth. My sister and I were only preschoolers. We
had to learn to stay at home all day without the guiding
hand of a babysitter.

No, it wasn’t a case of child abuse. Our parents
didn’t run off to some place like a tavern. Mom wasn’t
well that summer. We were told that she had to be taken
clear up to Spokane every week for treatments. I like to
think that sis and I wo*cunade out of the ‘right stuff.’ Most
of the time, we did feel sort of brave.

After receiving our weekly by-by hugs, we were left
behind to witness the Model T disappearing in a cloud of
dust. We would look at each other for a while, and then
begin playing that we were at a camp meeting.

However, several times when we were left alone,
‘drop ins’ supplied highlights, and some responsibility for
Ethel and me. One long parentless day, in the midst of our
play time, a bum came walking down the lane. He scared
us enough that we sort of shook. The ice was broken
when the bum asked if he could get something to eat.

Quickly we ran to the house. While sis was busy cut¬
ting up potatoes to fry, I was stuffing the cook stove full of
wood. Dad always had a small can of kerosene to start
the fire with. It’s a wonder we didn’t burn the house
down.

The bum was fed a diet of fried eggs and a plate full
of potatoes. After getting a free meal down his stomach,
the bum left no tips.

Old Gus Kruger, a Rocklyn cattle farmer, was our
weekly meat delivery guy during the summer months.
Gus would knock a steer in the head, and peddle it to the
farmers. The next week he usually would ‘do in’ a calf, so
he could have veal as his speciality for the day. His Model
T Ford held a shed like cabinet in the back that was full of
fresh meat.

We kids were spending another day alone when Gus
Kruger drove up with his mobile butcher shop. I told Gus
I didn’t know what part of the steer to leave here. He said
my mom usually wanted a roast and some steak. While
Gus was setting part of a chopped up steer on a box, I
told him I had no money to pay for it.

Old Gus had a dry sense of humor which I didn’t un¬
derstand. He thought a bit, then finally said, “If you pro¬
mise not to eat the meat, and put it down the cellar ’til it’s
paid for, I’ll leave it here.”

Golly, that was a chore. Our old cellar hadn’t been
used for a long time, as it was pretty well caved in. It took
some time to get those two bundles of steer meat down
that spider webbed cellar.

When the sky began to darken, sister and I always
started to crave for papa and mama to return. When the
stars came out, sis and I would manage to crawl up on
the blacksmith shop roof. From there we could see the
car lights as they came up over the creek hill.

It was a disappointment when the magneto driven
lights didn’t dim down for the turn off. It meant we had to
wait on the roof for another pair of lights to pop up.

Eventually, a pair of car lights made it into our lane.
That particular night found us running up to dad to let
him know that Gus Kruger wanted the meat put in the old
cellar, since it wasn’t paid for. Dad smiled, and said,
“That sounds like old Gus. He was just having some fun
with you kids.”

The folks always brought back goodies from Burgans
Spokane store. Usually fancy city made bakery stuff.
Sometimes something wearable to brighten up our bo¬
dies.

God Is Love

In April, 1986, I received a local letter representing
an excellent national organization that has molded many
a young lad in the proper ways of life. They are asking
support for this American ideal.

But this organization for the last two years, stated it
still holds firm that each boy must declare a belief in God
to become a member. Now that’s not very nice because it
isn’t fair. I don’t like to see such a wonderful organization
like the Boy Scouts of America discriminate against some
of our future generation, just because they have a differ¬
ent concept of our world and the universe in general.

The policy making of this well known youth club has
it down to this: No oath, No service, No fellowship. It’s
like when the popular, “No shoes, No Shirt, No service”
signs were the order of the day, except this ruling is more
devastating. It can separate a boy from his friends, all be¬
cause he was raised under a different influence. A belief
in God is great, and American as Apple pie. But if your
concept of God is one of nature, spirit of life, it wouldn’t
be good enough to qualify for the Scouts.

A belief in God brings out many concepts of what it
means to believe in God. Last fall this was brought out
ably on a four way planned discussion. To the Quakers,

believing in God makes for peace on earth with no wars
allowed. Believing in a strong fundamental God? That’s
too scary. And the list goes on.

Before I slipped away from my inherited influence-1
liked the gentle God that I believed in. My Christian up¬
bringing days were spent in a country church. The church
members lived by a motto which hung on the church
wall, it read: ‘God is Love.’ Our minister saw God as the
fatherly loving kind, whose job was to put lots of love in
our hearts. With those good thoughts, we learned to ac¬
cept everyone, regardless of their convictions or beliefs.

I guess the Scouts’ policy making fellow has a sterner
demanding God in mind. I’m thankful that our old Rock-
lyn minister when he came to the rough spots in the Bi¬
ble, was kind enough to simply pass over them.

Nevertheless, everyone knows the Boy Scouts have
loads of other good rules to live by. I was a Scout briefly
while in California and had a lot of fun, but didn’t take
nearly the time to learn all the good stuff they had to of¬
fer. However, I did learn how to save matches by starting
fires, via Indian style. My friend had a whole chest full of
pins and medals for being smart and ambitious. I missed
the hikes with these outdoor boys, as I had a paper route.

Walkers For Peace. This group stopped in on their march from Montana to Seattle. Money raised on walk made it possible for a
couple to visit Russian farms with a message of love and other good things.

It would be nice if the Scouts’ policy makers would
loosen their segregated hold of enforcing a belief in God.
Wouldn’t that be the Christian thing to do to show your
love for every child of every background? The danger of
polluting the boys would be nil. In fact it would have the
opposite effect.

Let’s take the YWCA for instance. It started out as a
strong protective force in protecting the young Christian
women from the evils of the outside world. So naturally
their belief in God came automatically.

The Y once was very segregated. No men were al¬
lowed to join. Mixed swimming was a no-no. If no separ¬
ate pools were available, a rope was placed between the
men and women. No lustful looks were allowed to ex¬
change across the ropes, and many not so dangerous
rules were enforced.

After 126 years of advancing service the Association
now draws together membership from every diverse ex¬
perience and faith, so they may join in the struggle for

peace and justice, freedom and dignity for all people.

A person can’t help but feel good all over about the
Y’s imperative statement which is printed on the annual
report covers: “To thrust our collective power toward the
elimination of racism wherever it exists and by any means
necessary.”

Now since I’ve expressed my feelings, I feel better
and will meet the Scouts’ request for a donation. I hope
they will meet their goal. What is God to me? I won’t get a
Boy Scout badge for my answer. It’s found in a two verse
poem that I tore out of an inspirational booklet years ago,
it reads: “If God speaks - It will not be in decaying scrip¬
tures - Nor in towering cathedrals of glass and stone - Nor
through the mouths of holy men - With jeweled miters
and gilded robes.

“If God speaks - It will be in the rustle of the wind in
the leaves - In the seagull’s cry and the roar of the surf -
And in the diamond web of a million dancing stars on a
summer night.”

Billy Sunday

A while back a question was asked in The Wilbur Re¬
gister, “Who was the first well known evangelist?” Any
senior citizen that’s worth their salt should remember it
was Billy Sunday. Without being biased I’ll try and give a
historical account of old Billy Sunday when he was in the
Northwest. He made quite a showing in the Spokane and
Olympia area.

All this took place about the time I was born. But the
information I have is well documented through kept arti¬
cles, a family old time post card album, and my auntie
Lou, who was a strong follower of Billy Sunday.

First let’s go back and find out how life got started for
Billy Sunday. As a young guy Billy played baseball with
the Chicago White Socks. When he got married, he be¬
came a Presbyterian. Through the church, he got a job at
the Chicago YMCA. After a spell, he jumped the gun
and went on to become assistant to a small fry evangelist.
In 1896, Sunday picked up a song leader and began his
career as a revivalist and held mass meetings in towns
and cities all over the U.S. He preached a vivid version of
an Evangelical-Fundamentalist, and was noted for his
flamboyant acrobatics in the pulpit. In fact Billy Sunday
was more of an entertainer than an evangelist, whose
flare for showmanship made him very popular. Wealthy
businessmen found it financially healthy to contribute to
Sunday’s support when he came to their towns.

Most Spokane churches said they would help spon¬
sor Billy Sunday if he would preach about the evils of
drink and the dens of iniquity. But when Billy was
ushered into Spokane, one of his main sponsors was
Jimmy Durkin, Spokane’s biggest liquor store and saloon
owner.

As soon as Billy got settled, Durkin started ‘working
on him.’ He picked up Billy at his hotel and took him for a
ride in his carriage so everyone on the steets could see
them together. For publicity, Durkin placed a sign over
his saloon entrance, stating: “If Your Children Need
Shoes, Don’t Buy Booze.”

Jimmy Durkin dined with Billy Sunday, and when
Billy was preaching in his tent that held 3,000 people,
Durkin would sit in the front row on the platform with
Billy so everyone could see him.

People came in droves to hear and see Billy Sunday,
because he was so powerful in showing off his display of
emotions. While in Spokane he got rather hysterical and
broke a chair over the pulpit to emphasize a point. In one
of his sermons, Billy related the story of David and Goli¬
ath. You’d have to be a fight fan to appreciate the story,
but this is the way he described it. “David picked up a
rock and put it in his sling shot. It hit Goliath in the co¬
conut, between the lamps. He dropped to the mat, took
the count, and turned his toes to the daisies.”

The rootin, tootin Billy Sunday was also a sharpie. A
heckler, who shouted the question, then famous in all ag¬
nostic or atheist circles, “Who was Cain’s wife?” Billy
Sunday shot back the reply, “I respect any seeker of
knowledge but I want to warn you, young man, don’t risk
being lost to salvation by too much inquiring after other
men’s wives.”

Some of the churches and Billy Sunday decided to
charter a train and go to Olympia to sell the legislature on
the idea of prohibition. In order to do this, it was neces¬
sary to raise some dough, so Billy decided to ask for don¬
ations. He wanted to know if anyone would give $100. If
so please stand up. Jimmy Durkin figured this would be
big publicity for him, so he was the first to stand. By now,
Billy was getting his belly full of Durkin. He demanded
that he close his dive that was sending a lot of guys to
hell. Durkin tried to sit down three times, but with 3,000
people watching, Billy made him stand up and each time
he got a bit rougher with Durkin. Billy finally demanded
$1,000 from him. With that kind of donation, Jimmy
Durkin contributed to his downfall faster than he cared to.

Later when another evangelist, Gypsy Smith came
to Spokane, Durkin didn’t look him up. He had seen the
light, and the show was over as far as he was concerned.

But the reformers rolled along and went over to the
Capitol and sold the legislature on the idea to give pro¬
hibition a try. It was bye-bye to all the saloons in the state
of Washington. The ‘wets’ had to wait a while for the
speak-easies to get going.

Billy Sunday’s Spokane crusade was partly financed
by selling scads of postcards of himself in various preach¬

ing poses. They ranged all the way from thumping the
pulpit with his fist, hard like, to holding a watch in front of
his right leg that was parked on a chair. The caption read,
“God’s counting time on you.” Whatever that meant.

Billy Sunday’s popularity waned after 1920 when his
style became old stuff. He was called upon from time to
time to display a little of his old fire. In 1935 he passed
away in the town that gave him his start, Chicago.

The Solace Tree

About a 15 minute jog west from the Rocklyn sign
post, will bring any interested person to an abandoned
highway. The road will take you past where Sugar grew
up to the ripe age of 18. Then she flew the coop to live
with me. That abandoned strip of lumpy asphalt brings
back many memories.

Just as the road makes a bend to the north, there
sets an old empty gravel pit. On top of a bluff that over¬
looks this foresaken hole, stood a cherry tree that has
died since a tragic event took place there. But its lateral
roots now send up several bush-like trees.

A couple of decades ago, Sugar got to hankering for
her old scab-rock and sagebrush scenery, so we started
using this vacant road for our physical fitness program.
One spring day we spotted a car parked by the bluff with
the cherry tree on top. Soon recognized this tall old timer
as Roy Borck. He had just climbed down from inspecting
the blossoms on this lonesome cherry tree. “I’m glad the
frost didn’t damage the blossoms,” Roy stated, adding
“The prospects for a few cherries looks good.”

Upon leaving Roy standing by his familiar old car, I
told Sugar that when I was a kid, Roy would drive up to
the Rocklyn store on Sunday afternoons in his version of
a racing car. The bullet shaped hand made body was
bolted on to a frame that held a model T motor. It was
quite a show-off rig, and was looked over by everyone
while waiting for the passenger train to pull in from Spo¬
kane. He built the cockpit just big enough to hold himself.
But it was a thrill to see Roy go tearing down the road with
a rooster tail of dust following behind him.

The next season, just by fate, we found Roy back

again at the lone cherry tree. This time the blossoms had
fallen to the ground, and the stems holding the cherry
shaped buds were drying up. He had a pair of pruning
shears in his hand, and was busy whacking off many
branches. “It needs pruning to bring back life,” he said, “I
hope next year to see blossoms making cherries that will
set.”

We talked about the early days of the tractors. Roy
used to encourage me by stating that tractors were here
to stay, and I should not fall apart if a total breakdown
occurred. He was my pacifier ’til tractors took over the
farms. Roy was a much wanted combine separater man,
and drew high wages when harvest time rolled around.

The third year we found evidence that Roy had been
checking on his roadside cherry tree. Limbs were again
shaped to give the tree grace. But the sickly look of that
tree showed signs that its days were numbered.

That same year when the August heat was the hot¬
test and the wheat was about all shaved off, Roy became
depressed. Upon finding a farewell note, Bill Livingston
and George Borck got to the cherry tree on the bluff too
late.

Roy loved to see things grow. During our 1931 dust
bowl, he used to tell us that tender wheat plants needed
large clods to protect them from the harsh winds. “A per¬
son can harrow spring seeded fields too much, and break
up the needed protection,” he would say.

Bill and his dad had befriended Roy during his retire¬
ment years. Yet despondency had set in and taken its
toll.

Weddings Vary

In less than a week, some Rocklynites had the privi¬
lege of attending two different kinds of weddings. The
first one was a formal affair. The Gooley-Mielke shindig
filled a large local church to the brim. It was followed by a
formal wedding reception at the brides parents’ farm.
Live music and food was plentiful. Happy congratula¬
tions and fellowship lasted ’til there was no one left. I’m
sure the newlyweds were well satisfied with that kind of
send-off.

Now from the other side of the fence: Four days
later, on a high mountain top north of Davenport, a dif¬
ferent kind of wedding took place. The outdoor attend¬
ance was only about 50. However, there were guests
from Edwall, Wilbur, Reardan, Davenport, Spokane and

Seattle. Also a plane brought in a sister and a mother of
the bride from Chicago. The rest were local natives, in¬
cluding three dogs and a horse.

Getting there was no easy chore. It was not like the
average weddings, where you are escorted down a soft
carpeted aisle to a pew. In contrast, there was this moun¬
tain that rose from a humble valley. It was your problem
how to get up to the top to witness this wedding cere¬
mony.

Half way up this precipitously steep mountain, I de¬
cided to look down. I froze when I realized there was
nothing to stop us if slipping took place. That hard rock
bottom looked mighty fatal.

On becoming helpless, Sugar left me and accepted
aid from a young native. Hugh Williams had to come
down from the top with his mountain goat type of shoes
and rescue me.

Some of the valley dwellers found an easier pass up
to the top. A home movie camera with sound equipment
was lugged up. Also a tape recorder, cameras by the
handfuls, and preacher Barr’s ceremonial gown.

Bouquets of home grown white gladiola got up there
somehow, and were artfully arranged among the rocks.
The necks of the adult guest were hung with red rose hip
beads that were made by the bride and groom.

With no aisle to walk down, the bride, Terri Koenig
and groom Rico Reed stood precariously overlooking all
that deep and beautiful scenery. It was kind of an ‘earth
wedding’ that included everything close to nature. During
the wedding, little children were busy blowing pretty soap
bubbles that floated past the bridal party and down over
that scary below. Rev. Roger Barr so ably performed the
wedding ceremony, emphasizing the spirit and beauty of
life. It was a refreshing service put on by sincere people.

Earth people’s wedding

Newlyweds Ron and Linda Mlelke.

Hugging

A couple of years ago when Sugar and I returned
from Spokane, my sister surprised us by getting the fam¬
ily clan together to remind me it was 45 years ago that I
ran off with Sugar so I could marry her—robbing the cra¬
dle, so to speak. Being thankful to be around for all these
years caused me to sort of choke up, so hugging was the
only way I could express myself.

What’s wrong with hugging? Not a darn thing. A lot
of us thrive on hugging. It makes the mind work more hu¬
manly, and opens up the channel of friendliness. It does¬
n’t matter whether it’s a friendly squeeze or a nice quick
hug. Oh sure, you’ll get some feedback from certain re¬
served folks, especially when a hug is held a second too

long with the opposite sex. Strange as it may seem, in
grief the hug is never questioned, even by the most puri¬
tanical person, no matter how long someone is held.

It seems like males are more reserved when it comes
to hugging, especially another male. Usually this man to
man hugging is saved for that long-time-no-see event.

You can always tell the non-huggable ones. They
stiffen up like a board when you try to fit them into your
arms. For the reserved folks, a pat on the head, or the
squeezing of the arm is a great substitute. After all, most
of us are associating in a stand-offish handshaking cul¬
ture.

All this handshaking stuff got started during the cave
man days. It happened when our hairy ancestors met an¬
other strange cave man. They grabbed each others hand.
It was for protection to find out if the other guy was carry¬
ing a destructive rock in his hands.

An affectionate or caring hug is nothing new. If a
person has never been hugged, it could be tough for that
person to grow up correctly. Nature planted this hugging
stuff in infants, and needs to be given back to them in
theraputic doses throughout life. Case in point: This fall,
a little girl was lost in the Northtown Sears store. She ran
up to a stranger that she thought she could trust. After be¬
ing lifted up, and exchanging hugs, her stress was re¬
lieved. This assured the tot of her personal safety. She
then pointed to where she thought her mother could be
found.

There are a bunch of people in Spokane where Su¬
gar and I socialize that are very huggable. If the minister
spots personal friends that have missed our services for a
spell, a sincere hug is given, and warm greetings are ex¬
changed. Sometimes I like to miss a few Sundays just to
receive that returning prodigal son type of hug.

Since we are all designed to thrive on affection, ten¬
derness, etc., crying is also a normal expression of emo¬
tion. (According to a lot of smart guys that study such
things.)

Before the cement in the Coulee Dam was thor¬
oughly cured, Lake Roosevelt had its own ‘Love Boat’
cruising around. I doubt that Captain Merrill Stubing of
TV Love Boat fame was even born at that time.

Our own Miss Coulee had her captain too, when she
journeyed up and down the inland waters. Captain Frank
Selde may not have had romantic eyes, but he was more
amusing and entertaining than Merrill. With a grin from
ear to ear, Frank steered the pleasure boat, Miss Coulee
up to the loading ramp at Fort Spokane. It was harvest
time of 1942, when 60 of us rented this holiday boat for
an all day Sunday cruise up the new man-made lake.

Excitement ran high when Frank and Leanard Hut-
sell pointed this cruiser north with its load of human cargo.
Seeing the shoreline scenery move was real fascinating to
some of us.

Harvest had just begun, so a lot of the more serious
minded farmers were leaning over the railing, talking
about the crops and watching the water split alongside
the boat. The seasoned wives just sat inside with their
lunch baskets and peeked through the windows at the
lofty mountains passing by.

For Sugar and I, it was our first group romantic out¬
ing. Communications on board brought my sister-in-law
and farmer George a little closer to saying ‘I do.’ For my
fresh married brother-in-law, it was like an extended hon¬
eymoon, as the two spent most of the time as silhouette
figures on the bow of the ship.

There wasn’t as much hanky-panky going on as
seen on the real Love Boat. The double decked Miss

During the post war years, the then Mayor of Spo¬
kane, Kenneth Lawson, warmed the Rocklyn church pul¬
pit up one Sunday by stating that we should find a good
reason to have a good cry once in a while. We are all sen¬
timental people, whether we admit it or not. Alex Haley,
the author of ‘Roots’ said he never cared to trust a guy
that says he never has cried.

As a kid, there used to be a big discrimination as to
who was doing the crying. While attending Rocklyn’s one
room schoolhouse, Edna Grob was found crying because
of some embarrassment. We all rallied around her, and
felt sorry for her. But when a similar thing happened to
Benny Hall, we called him a cry baby. His emotions were
so set on edge that he wanted to fight anyone that got
near him.

A few years ago after taking part in a protest march
that ended up at Riverfront Park, a Vietnam veteran tried
to give a speech on the horror of witnessing the raw kil¬
lings of that war. In the middle of his address, he broke
down and wept uncontrollably, and stumbled against a
tree. He then sank to the ground. A man ran up and
hugged him. The thought that someone cared, and un¬
derstood, brought temporary healing that he needed so
badly.

A discussion took place on our way back to our cars.
It was agreed that when you are at a loss witnessing such
mental suffering, a wordless hug is the best medicine.

Boat

Coulee was big enough so everyone finally had his or her
thing a-going. Reserved-like farmers began loosening up
a bit. Jokes and kidding of the simplest form became a
hysterical event. Even the lunch-box sitting wives left
their windows to join the fun.

A refreshing waterfall midway toward Canada was
where the boat docked. Finding a flat spot, we spread our
picnic lunch out on the grass. More fun took place, ’til the
boat crew figured it was time to head for home. A simple
but slippery trail back to the boat gave the young bucks a
chance to help the lovelies over rocks and other stumbl¬
ing objects.

What happened to Miss Coulee? Well, prosperity set
in after the war. People began buying their individual
happiness. Factories started turning out high-powered
speed boats, so fun loving people could go zooming over
the water with skiers holding on behind.

That left Miss Coulee with absolutely nothing to do.
Lonely and rejected, she was pulled out of Lake Roose¬
velt and drug overland to Lake Chelan. Here the moun¬
tains were taller and loaded with more growing things.
She changed her name to “Lady of the Lake.” It caused
pride once again to enter her hull.

Right now, this proud ‘Lady of the Lake’ is carrying
lots of people up and down the glacier-like lake. Serving
pleasure to the sight seers, the lonely ones and those who
are happily married. A sort of northwest Love Boat.

Love

Let’s Be Sweet

A while back, I was paying a call on a guy about clos¬
ing an old business account. While trying to come to an
agreement in the living room, his wife came in and asked
if he knew where the vacuum cleaner attachment was.
“It’s where it should be,” was his answer. He then turned
to me and said, “She will find it, all she has to do is to use
her head.”

When I was getting ready to leave, this guy respon¬
ded to a knock on the door. A middle aged lady was lost,
and wanted to know how to get to a certain place. He
told her in such details how to get to her destination that
she could easily visualize the kind of scenery she would
be seeing. When the lost lady was about to leave, he said,
“Wait a minute, I’ll draw you a map.”

That sort of bugged me. For all I know, his wife
could still be looking for that vacuum cleaner attachment.

When a young guy, I saw this same fellow operate at
Grange dances. This live wire was a very courteous guy.
A sort of a gallant knight. He would dash around the car
to open the other door for his date. He probably had the
habit of lifting his hat off his head when the opposite sex
went by.

As a young fellow, I didn’t do all those fancy things. I
would have made out better if the Women’s Liberation
Movement would have been in effect. I sort of like to ap¬
proach the opposite sex on a equal base. When Sugar
and I were fresh married, Sugar tried to grade me up a
little, by asking if I would walk on the street side of the
sidewalk with her. (It was the custom in those days.) To
make her happy, I did. I guess it was to protect women if
a car came running up onto the sidewalk.

Getting back to'being nice. What’s wrong with living
with the thought that any day could be the last day?
Would you then bark at your wife?

The best cure for such inconsideration is to take out
the old album. Call your wife to come into the living
room, even if she is busy looking for a cleaner attach¬
ment. Snuggle rather close together. As the pages of
youthful pictures are turned, begin to reminisce of by¬
gone days. Memorable thoughts of happiness and past
dreams will be renewed and make you feel very sweet.

Then turn and look at each other. The aging process
will tell you that time is shortening the road that you will
be together. You will then realize there is less time left to
be helpful and considerate.

Never Too Old

You old guys, when you were young, and watching
a parade, didn’t soldiers marching down the streets with
rifles over their shoulders look like full grown men? Now
days, don’t they look like very young lads? I used to think
anyone having some white hair sticking out, was sup¬
posed to take a back seat in life.

In the early 1930s, Will Rogers made a movie titled,
‘Life Begins at 40.’ When I went to see that movie 50
years ago, I thought it was too late in life to start anything
really worthwhile. My dad was in his 40s when he quit
farming. As far as I was concerned, his peak had been
reached.

Years ago, there was an ad that sold some kind of
snake oil for men suffering from prostate problems. The
ad showed a rather shaky man all humped over sitting in
a chair with a blanket across his lap. For those that re¬
membered that ad, a caption under the picture read:“If
you are 40 or older, beware of prostate trouble.”

I used to think anyone over 50 was set in their ways,
and over the hill. When a visiting guest preacher who was
pushing 60 came to our house, mom told us kids to be
nice and respect the old fellow. Upon arriving, and before
the minister sat down in our well placed chair, he asked
me how old I was. An audible 10 came out of my mouth.
He smiled, and said, “In 10 more years, you will be 20”
(A brilliant calculation) Question no. two. “Have you
been a good boy?” A head nod said yes. I then received a
pat on the head from the sad eyed minister as he started
to sit down.

After doing my Christian duty for mom, the out¬
doors looked mighty refreshing to me. Thank goodness,
the ministers of today are not the boogie man of long ago
with that old man image.

I used to believe that some of my old friends were
pushing their luck too far. George Gunning, at that time
had turned 73 on the time clock. When he told me he
was planning on building a new house in Davenport, I
said to him, “Golly, how come at your age?” George rep¬
lied, “Yea I know, according to the Bible, I’ve lived my
alloted time, but I’m not intending to leave ’til I have to.”

Then, years later, when I reached 75,1 surprised Su¬
gar by saying, “Let’s tear down part of our house, and
build on something brand new. And wouldn’t it be fun to
walk from the old house that has a history and go right
into rooms that you have dreamed about all your life?”
That was a dangerous way-out statement to make. It
overcharged Sugar’s talents, and it left me with no room
for backing out.

I guess it’s worth it, if for nothing else than just to see
Sugar living on a manic high. But is it logical? Are some
of us acting like kids, and don’t realize that the life cycle
will soon be completed? Anyway for the first time, I can
understand to some extent why my older relatives when
they retired, built new homes in Ritzville.

For practical reasons it’s best for us not to buy house¬
hold equipment with a warranty over 15 years, or to build
a house out of bricks that will soon be used mostly as a
monument to someone’s past life. Anyone planning on
what we did should within reason make a house that is
suitable for either the very young or the very old. Unne¬
cessary stairways and steps can be a hazard to your life.
Slick floors and small booby trap rugs can land you in a
wheel chair.

By golly, I too am beginning to get excited about the
new modern section nailed onto this old house. To make
sense, it’s best that we start calling it, ‘Our retirement
home.’

Senior

Golly how time does fly! It just seems like yesterday
when all I could think about was to junk my school days,
and talk my dad into letting me come back to Washing¬
ton, so I could plant lots of wheat and watch it grow. At
that time, dad had reached the half century mark, and I
had made it to the ripe age of 18. The best way to grow
old is not to be in a hurry about it. After all, we senior
citizens are just kids that’s getting up in years. As the old
saying goes, “Years will wrinkle the skin, but lack of en¬
thusiasm wrinkles the soul.”

I have 12 years of practice on how to be a senior citi¬
zen, but so far I haven’t made much headway. I have not
been to any of the senior centers throughout our county.

I hear tell they serve mighty good food at those places,
and that they are needed by lots of retired folks.

I’ve been told that you can earn a certain amount of
money while in retirement, so you can live higher on the
hog. There are many weather beaten senior citizens that
just love to keep their hands in the farming business. Not
for greed, but it’s a way of life that’s been drilled into them
so deeply they can’t seem to bow out.

For the elite retirees, there is a special place made for
them. My relative’s wife, Carolyn Maurer, beat it to Sun
City, Arizona, when widowed, and loves every minute of
it. It’s a classy place all right, but the formality and moni¬
tored rules would shorten my retirement life considera¬
bly.

A Golden

If you happen to be lucky enough to share a bed
with the same partner for half a century, it’s time to throw
a celebration of victory for lasting that long. That’s what
the Davenport Assembly of God did when they threw a
50th anniversary bash for Bud and Beulah Olsen in May,
1985.

When we got through kissing and congratulating
these fifty year veterans of married bliss, Sugar and I se¬
parated, and wandered around through a roomfull of
faces, while fellowshipping with old acquaintenances that
took separate roads in life. They were folks that we
usually don’t see ’til an important wedding takes place, or
another golden anniversary arrives on the scene.

Memories have a strange way of unfolding. It only
takes a little mental shifting of gears to recognize old
friends that have developed a more matured, and well
settled look. Time does show the wear and tear on all of
us. Wrinkles change the map on our faces, but most ever*\
yone retains the same familiar giggle, and smile that
makes it easy to identify forgotten friends from teenage
days.

Most of us oldsters still love our mates, as well as lit¬
tle children. We should try to keep that same stored up
feeling that makes life go around.

This golden anniversary event made a guy realize
that things were different 50 years ago when Bud and
Beulah took their vows to live a married life. Did couples

Citizens

Some of us just can’t adjust to being away from our
environment very long, especially in retirement years. A
lot of us retirees also inherited the ability of enjoying our
nesting place, minus the migration pattern. I’m a four
season guy who likes to soak in all the seasons that rotate
themselves year after year. It’s good to leave home for
short periods of time, it makes you appreciate the return¬
ing road home.

This fall, nostalgia went through me while standing
lonely like in a field that had been emptied by combines,
and trucks.A sniff of fall air was drifting over the stubble
field. The stinging rays of the sun warmed one side of my
body, while the north side of my sun tanned rib cage felt a
little chilly.

All the sensation I got out of harvest this year was a
trip to the warehouse office to see what my share of the
crop would amount to. Driving past those tall elevators
reminded me of by gone harvest days when I used to take
in the last load of wheat for the day. Sugar would then
scoot on home to slosh herself with water by standing un¬
der an outdoor shower. From there, she had to run into
the house, and get supper on the table. It hit me that Su¬
gar and I will never repeat those many harvest scenes
again.

There is no future by living in the past, but remem¬
bering the bygone days is a blessing we should all be
thankful for. It gives a person the instinct to reach out for
another day to add to his autobiography.

Anniversary

get married with all the wedding bell trimmings in those
days. No, not that I know of. These big deal weddings
didn’t get started ’til after Adolph Hitler’s defeat. It wasn’t
until then that daddies could afford to put on a show for
their departing daughters. Neither were the country boys
able to flash through their home towns in a sport car,
looking for a date to date.

When Beulah and Bud decided to get married, all
they did was to get in touch with preacher Kroneman
who had a parish, and a church down the street a ways.
They had him come over to Beulah’s family home where
he tied the marriage knot.

To zoom in on Bud’s bride of fifty years, one has to
go back to an old established wheat ranch in the Rocklyn
area. Beulah is the youngest of Charley and Julia Rux’s
string of daughters. They all arrived in orderly fashion with¬
out any time out for a brother. Mabel, Aileen, Bessie,
and finally Beulah. In fact, it was sort of luck that Beulah
made it.

Her dad wanted a son so bad that when word
reached him out in the harvest field that his wife gave birth
to another girl, (Bessie) he was so disappointed that he
refused to go home. It took three days before Charley felt
like leaving his custom thrashing crew to go see daughter
number three. Charley and his wife again tried for a boy,
but Beulah arrived instead.

Charley made the best of his all girl family. They

grew up healthy like, and helped supply a more equal ra¬
tio between the boys and the skimpy girl population.
Later Beulah carried out the same family tradition by hav¬
ing just four girls too.

The Rocklyn district at one time had three one room
schoolhouses. They were scattered all around so the kids
wouldn’t have to take all forenoon to get there. Two of
Beulah’s sisters, Bessie and Aileen, became school
marms and taught in two of Rocklyn’s schools. Country
preacher H.B. Mann, taught in the stricter Rocklyn
school that had a church nearby.

Two of the Rux sisters rode horses to the main Rock¬
lyn schoolhouse. Bessie was the teacher, and little Beu¬
lah was one of her pupils. Beulah and her scattering of
school mates were the last of the Rocklynites to attend
this one room country school.

When Beulah entered her last years of schooling in
Davenport, it seemed like Bud was waiting for her. They
became high school sweethearts. Lots of Sundays were
spent socializing with local couples that had matrimonial
intentions on their minds. After some simple outings that
those depression days had to offer, Beulah and Bud
made a decision to try for a long married life.

That same year, seven other local couples took up
marriage vows. It nearly wiped out all the singles. It left
only me, and a handful of others that couldn’t get it alto¬
gether. However, that long wait of five years brought Su¬
gar.

Sugar’s wheat hauling days are over.

Aquatics

If you are carrying more weight than your body likes
to haul around, and your legs are shot, running is not for
you. Swimming is your best medicine. At the YWCA in
Spokane, we have proof that tired housewives who live
under everyday stress are benefitted by swimming, ’til
their bodies say they had enough.

It’s up to your physical condition on how many laps
you can put away. Most swimmers reach euphoria by
doing 10 to 20 laps. Sugar reaches her glow point when
she does 25 laps. Because I get too excited when I enter
the pool, it takes me between 45 to 50 laps before I feel
calmed down and recharged.

Swimming can also do special health tricks to your
body. A Vietnam veteran who has the jitters from seeing
all that killing, is now able to replace valium with lots of
lap swimming. A blind author and composer, Hans Mol-
denhauer, took midday swims at the Y because it made
his brains run smoother. He was then able to write better
stuff. We have not seen him since his seeing eye wife,
Rosaleen, died of cancer.

A few years ago, a slim, worn out housewife whose
religion made it OK for her to have more children than
she could handle, depended on swimming as a tonic dur¬
ing her years of diaper changing.

Wednesday, and sometimes Tuesdays or Fridays,
finds Sugar and me up at the YWCA. Lately our pool
friends are Harvey, a retired lawyer and wife, Lee. They
found out that swimming back and forth keeps the
circulation in order. Also Air Force pilot, Bill and wife
Phyllis, scoot across the water for the same reason.

Don, a border line leukemia guy, keeps himself on
the happy side of life by swimming. He is the picture of
health, but has to watch out for infection. Then there is
old Ed. He saw more winters than any of us, and is no
tornado in the water. But his wobbly dog paddling keeps
his mind and hands steady enough to paint lots of beauti¬
ful, old time country scenes. Sometimes Millie Guhlke
from Davenport shows up in a swim suit and joins us.

Virginia, the slick looking Avon saleslady, also loves
to keep her frame from sagging. Virginia swims as often
as we do. In fact at one time there were four generations
swimming in the pool. Virginia’s mother was swimming
with her, while her daughter was swimming around, and
watching the little fourth generation girl having fun in all
that water.

Across from the lap lanes, it’s always a treat to watch
young mothers dunk their babies below the water line.
Soon the little tots learn to paddle and kick up a storm.

There is a pool exercise and swim class for pregnant
women. The purpose is to make healthy mothers, and
give the unborn a natural feeling of ‘rock-a-by-baby.’
When an overly pregnant woman is missing from the
class, we know that another life has seen daylight.

It’s interesting to note that there are different levels of
physical endurance. I knew a paid instructor who after
exhausting her participants in three separate half hour
classes, swam over to our lanes, and did her own thing by
doing a string of speedy laps.

Swimming is not the only thing you can do at the Y.
There are programs that specialize in about anything you

desire. If your feet need a strengthening job, try the fancy
ballet class. If you find yourself panting when you empty
the garbage can, try the vigorous endurance class. If you
would like to view your feet from the standing position,
but can’t, a weight reducing program is there for you. A
pumping iron workout place is used for those that like to
have an extra supply of muscles at the proper body loca¬
tion. Also you can get a massage without any hanky
panky going on.

There is a weekly fellowship that one shares with the
Y personnel. Sandy, the pool check in girl, back from a
vacation, reported about the latest goings on at the
Knotts Berry Farm. It’s always informative to have a chat
with two busy ladies, Pat Miller and Lois Kester. They are

the main cogs that keep the YWCA turning.

There are oodles of women including Sugar that
donate some of their time at the Y. Each has a specific job
to be responsible for. As far as finances allow, the arms of
tender care reach out to many helpful programs. Handi¬
cap and ‘special people’ programs are going full steam.
Also the Alternatives to Domestic Violence Program of¬
fers the best crisis clinic for women and children who get
battered around by dangerous men.

Getting back to that neat pool again. If you are afraid
of water that’s deeper than your bathtub, and scared that
you might sink like a rock, take some swim lessons. Then
come over and join the rest of the swimmers. All in all
winter aquatics is a haven for a lot of us.

Running Stuff

My mother weighed 215 pounds when she deve¬
loped lots of gallstones. She was a short lady, so it com¬
pounded all her weight into a small area. The surplus
pounds eventually contributed to her early death. Mom
dearly loved lots of coffee kucken, noodles, and German
sausage.

A lot of my overweight friends are beautiful people. I
love them all. I wish they could live a safer life. All they
have to do is to shove no more food down their throats
than their bodies need. Usually that is too simple a way to
reduce. But there is hope by taking the long hard road.

One choice is to go out and buy an armload of diet
books. Then spend the next few months trying to figure
out which book offers the best magic advice for reducing.
There are books that even allow for a little cheating, like
swallowing a piece of chocolate cake every once in a
while.

Some of my heavy friends tell me they find solace by
joining a weight watchers salon, where they are able to
share their heavy problems with others. A couple of my
hefty friends won a victory by dumping their excess
weight at such a reducing parlor. But later on, one of
them slid back into the fat pit.

Another way to lose weight but it’s expensive is to
remodel or build a new house. Sugar got so excited that
she forgot to eat for pleasure and lost twelve pounds. But
when the house finally got put together, her body was
back to wanting to gain weight all over again. Sugar says
it’s a struggle all the way when it comes to dumping
pounds.

A religious heavy I knew told her boyfriend that he
could quit smoking if only he would ask the Lord for
help. She didn’t like it when her heart throb asked why
she didn’t ask for divine guidance for her weight problem.

If I had to carry a five pound weight in each hand
while running, I would be pooped before reaching the fin¬
ish line. Yet I was surprised at what I saw on my first pub¬
lic run of the season. A really overweight male was able
to increase his running speed over his last year’s record.
He couldn’t see his feet when he was running, and still
was able to turn a corner without swaying. I believe fat is
overloading his system, and will in time endanger his
body’s working parts. However one can easily tell by

following closely behind a trim pair of shorts that fat is
beginning to disappear among the runners.

For 10 springs now, it’s the ‘in thing’ to be sold on
Bloomsday, whether you’re a runner or a spectator. A 90
plus year old guy made it around this famous route; of
course, he didn’t create much dust, but it made him feel
good. He now has a 10th anniversary souvenir T-shirt to
show all his friends before rigor mortis sets in.

Out here in the heart of America’s wheatland, it was
the Almira Great Run that spiked a lot of runners spirits
up to a higher level of happiness. It prepared us for that
Bloomsday stampede. Visibly it looked like the whole
show at Almira was run and operated by the women, ex¬
cept for the usage of a male trigger finger to blast off the
starting gun.

The ladies’ heaviest chore was the preparation and
serving of a staggering size picnic dinner, that was easily
devoured by 800 runners and guests.

There were local celebrities at Almira getting in their
final practice for Bloomsday. Lenn Dompier, a 60 year
old Davenport runner, made it around Almira’s 6.2 mile
course in 42 minutes. This workout helped Lenn to cap¬
ture first place at Bloomsday for his division.

For those that have feet good enough for running,
there are always plenty of runs left in Lincoln County be¬
fore the snow flies. Wild Goose Chase at Wilbur is a bust.
A group of about 700 runners is small enough to feel
comfortable with, and large enough to represent a mini
Bloomsday without that claustrophobic feeling. The
Butte or Bust run at Creston is always a challenge. It’s a
climb if repeated weekly that could be a good workout for
those with a weight problem.

Are there any middle aged farmers interested in run¬
ning? Yes, Gil Sheffels of Wilbur is. The spring of ’84, in
the middle of his spray operation, he checked his wrist
watch to see if he had time to make it up to the Keller run.
By not having to wait for the ferry very long, Gil made it
in time to slip into his shorts, and then wiggle himself into
shape before the starting gun went off.

After completing the 6.2 mile run, Mr. Sheffels again
checked his watch. He found he had time to make it back
to the farm to replace the depleting water supply for his
operating spray rig.

That run up on the reservation made Gil feel alert for
the rest of the day. It also gave him peace of mind that his
long slim body had had a good workout.

Running has now become a way of life for some of
us. New converts are joining the pack every week. There
are a few out there taking short cuts by putting their legs
to work before breaking the smoking habit.

At least they are running. More power to them.
There is a good chance they will be encouraged to clean
out their lungs later on. Case in point:

During memorial weekend, I drove down to Coulee
City to take part in initiating their first annual Rodeo Run.
I was introduced to Pat Tigges, an active mother of full
grown kids. She was at that time the editor and publisher
of the Coulee City newspaper.

I found out that while Pat was training for this event,
her husband realized that she wanted to prove that smok¬
ers can run, but he had doubts. A protective feeling came
over Patty’s husband, and he told her, “No, no, you
mustn’t do that, you won’t make it.”

Running with those negative thoughts must have put

some stress on Pat’s body, especially as the run route
stretched its way beyond this frontier looking town. Her
husband, the Coulee City crop duster, jumped into his
plane, and steered it into the air to see if Pat was making
it around the run OK.

Upon finding out that she made it, and at a respecta¬
ble time, he had a way of pouring some oil on the plane’s
exhaust system, so it could give off a smoke victory sig¬
nal, that meant, “OK, baby, you made it, congratula¬
tions!”

That meant more to Pat than if she had won the
overall winner’s trophy. Not wanting to cover up her train¬
ing habits, she readily confessed that between workouts,
a few cigarettes, and a little beer found her lips.

Who knows, Pat could feel so good about her run¬
ning success that she may want to find out if a pair of
smokeless lungs would give her more working power. Af¬
ter the run, Pat shared a can of beer with us. It was
against all my health rules in so doing. But it was like Eve
tempting Adam. It tasted so darn good after the sweaty
run, that I may have to evaluate ‘my died in the wool’
health habits.

Sister Madonna Buder

Being neither a Catholic or a Protestant, I was on
neutral ground when I ran (so to speak) into Spokane’s
running nun, Sister Madonna Buder. It was just by luck,
because nowdays modern nuns are hard to pick out from
a group of non-nuns.

This incident happened a month after a Bloomsday
run, during a Sunday service at the Unitarian Church. My

Sister Buder at the Indian Keller Run.

eyes fell upon an attractive lady that didn’t carry an ounce
of extra weight but did carry a deep tan. Later a friend
introduced me to Sister Buder who came to hear what
Dr. Houff had to say about Islam religion. She flattered
Houff by asking him if he was over there to study those
Islams. (three-quarters of a billion people are consumed
by that faith).

Madonna Buder should have been called the orig¬
inal ‘flying nun.’ She flew in from Boston with jet-lag and
all, just in time to take part in that year’s Bloomsday run.
Madonna’s time was 56 minutes and 29 seconds. She
can run eight miles in an hour.

Trains daily, scooping up 50 to 60 miles a week.
One year she ran 2,200 miles, competing in 19 shorter
runs and five marathons. As far as it is known, Madonna
is the first and only nun to run the Boston Marathon.

For Buder, running is a “spiritual thing.” She gives
her God all the credit for what she has accomplished in
running. Regardless where Sister Buder gets her steam
from, she is a remarkable person.

I have saved paper clippings that includes other
achievements. Madonna has been a counselor at Good
Shepherd, is now a certified Graphoanalyst, master of
counseling, and master of education psychology. Now,
wait a minute! Through her photographic skills she also
presents multi-media ministries and inspirational dancing.
It proves that some nuns can expand beyond ‘nunship’
status.

Madonna told me she is considering writing a book.
Certainly her story should be put down in print. The title
she had in mind is a very good one, but I’ll be darned if I
can recall it now.

Then bless her heart, after a long asbsence from
these parts, Sister Madonna Buder, the running nun was
at Almira trying out her running legs. (1986) She did her
thing for Multiple Sclerosis by making the 10,000 meter

course in 52 minutes. Not bad for a gal in her 50s. Then,
for relaxation Madonna bicycled back as far as Daven¬
port.

Sister Buder’s absentee story is one of determina¬
tion. The reason she hasn’t been seen lately is because
she has been doing her darndest to participate in the Iron
Man Tri-athlon in Hawaii. That event requires getting the
arms and legs in working condition for lots of fast cycling,
swimming and running.

During Sister’s workouts, a bad bike spill sent her to
the hospital so her injured body parts could heal up cor¬

rectly. What happened the following year was a repeat of
her first try, including another trip to the hospital.

Finally Buder packed her bags and flew over to New
Zealand, where her bike riding workouts were accom¬
plished without any trips to the hospital. She then got her
long awaited dreams fulfilled when she successfully
worked her way through Hawaii’s Iron Man Tri-athlon,
and established a good record for herself.

Sister Madonna Buder’s courage and strong will
adds a lot of material for the book she is trying to write
between her workouts and religious commitments.

A Little Bit Of This And That

Several years ago, before Halloween, a bunch of us
had the privilege to run in a Spokane run. It was billed as
the “Great Hallowe’en Hill Run—Spokane’s Toughest
10K”.

It was worth the run just to see the costumes. Some
came as cave men with shoes on. Even though the
flames were missing, a 63 year old she-devil got plenty
hot, as her skin tight suit was made of plastic. Sister Bu¬
der appeared as an angel in a long white robe. Her wings
were lowered to give less air drag. It didn’t take the angel
very long, with her glued on halo, to start ascending up
that mountain road.

A male fairy-impersonator of large size, kept weav¬
ing in and out of us runners, trying to make better time.
Little Orphan Annie and her Daddy Warbucks were pret¬
ty good runners. But her dog Sandy took too much time
out to stop at every water puddle for a tongue-licking
drink. Daddy Warbucks’ black suit also trapped too much
heat. A loosened collar and discarded coat made it possi¬
ble for the famous trio to finish in fair time.

The eye-catching costume was of a shapely young
lady wearing bunny shorts. She had a large powder puff
pinned to her fanny.

When galloping 64 year old lawyer Dellwo breaks
through the starting line, you are lucky to come in second
for that age group.

Nature’s paint brush of color is beautiful beyond
words. It’s overwhelming! No matter whether it’s seen
through the eyes of a Creationist or an Evolutionist.
Whatever, man’s relationship with Nature is just as real
on both sides.

For example: One Sunday afternoon, some of us
had the privilege of seeing nature’s colors at work, when
it was being reproduced through the new modern stained
glass windows at the Methodist Church in Davenport.
Rainbow colors were projected vividly on the ceiling.

On the way home from the reception, the skies were
busy painting their own unique color patterns in the west,
favoring reds, pinks and purples.

Later, Sister Buder stopped in to see us. She, too,
had witnessed the sunset out at Coulee City. In fact that
spectacular sunset saved her from losing an expensive
telephoto camera lens. She left it on a rock back at Sum¬
mer Falls. Awed by nature’s painted beauty in the west¬
ern skies, Buder wanted to capture that inspirational

scene on film. Finding her lens missing, a hasty retreat
back to Summer Falls was in order. Luckily, the lens was
there waiting to roll into the turbulent water.

In 1984, the Davenport Presbyterians finally made it
to the century mark. They lost out to the Davenport
Methodist group by only a few months. But that didn’t
stop the second place winners from putting on a series of
big shows. Their kickoff celebration got started when
some sky divers were sent down from the heavenly skies
to land in front of a bunch of Presbyterians.

Then a couple of Sundays later, they presented sort
of a nostalgia Sunday. The church revived its foundation
ancestors by displaying some of their records, and old
photos. Songs and music of by gone days came live from
the young, and the not so young talented members.

As an outsider, it was a privilege to see a group hold¬
ing together a heritage that is still serving their convinced
faith well into the tail end of the 20th century.

The future of any solid religious organization really
depends on how much it meets the modern problems of
today. Years ago, the thinking was more or less centered
around the concern of which faith had the safest road to
the land beyond the sky.

Neaily 40 years ago, Rev. King, pastor of the
Methodist church in Davenport, attended our Christmas
program out at Rocklyn. Preacher King recognized talent
(brag brag) and insisted that we come to town, and put
on our nativity story.

When we moved ourselves and equipment into the
Davenport Methodist, the Christ child had to be born
once again at a later date. About a week after Christmas,
our play filled the church. That year Rocklyn had the
honor of lengthening out the Christmas season, and
made preacher J. Dean King very happy.

Old movies taken at the play brought back memories
that the drama wasn’t too bad. In fact, pretty good! The
stage was not as loaded as a Cecil B. DeMille production,
but the message was there for those of the Christian faith.

Since Christian religion hinges on the resurrection, it
was once again a privilege and a tradition to witness their
faith out at the Rocklyn church during their Easter pro¬
gram.

After church, a fresh air run took me by green hills
that eventually led me to relatives where Easter dinner
was partaken of.

Certainly it’s the time of year to be tolerant to all reli¬
gions. As usual, there was no discussion about this im¬
portant day for Christians. Instead there was a feeling of
understanding. What more have we to give to one an¬
other than love and understanding?

Here are a couple of quotes from guys that are dead
now, but were full of smarts: “Some beliefs are like blind¬
ers, shutting off the power to choose one’s own direc¬
tion. Some beliefs are pliable, like the young sapling
growing with the upward thrust of life.” When Gandhi
was asked what his religion was, he realized there was a
bit of good in all religions, so he answered by saying, “I’m
Moslem, Christian, Buddha, Jew and Hindu.”

Russell Chase is long gone now. His passing causes
the mind to think back. While Russell was chairman of
the Lincoln County Democrats, he taught me how to act
like a good Democrat. Even though I’ve strayed from the
flock every once in a while.

No matter how deep a political argument sank, Rus¬
sell with a twinkle in his eyes, and a smile on his face,
would jack up the conversation with a few humorous and
factual remarks. He could recognize a strong potential
candidate, as well as having a way of selling the good side
of a weak one.

One time when Tom Foley visited Davenport, a
small group of us guys got to visiting with him. He told
what a rough time Russell Chase had selling him as a roo¬
kie, running for Walt Horan’s Washington D.C. job.
When they got to Davenport, Chase thought of a bright
idea. He let the voters know that Tom’s mother was born
in Davenport. The voters then started to recognize Tom
Foley as an OK guy.

One cold morning in January about 20 years ago,
Henry Jackson and his fairly new wife paid Davenport a

very informal visit. Russell Chase was in his political
glory. Between Jackson and Chase, they made it a jolly
and relaxing affair. It was a breakfast I’ll long remember.

Horse That Came In First

Our present day running craze has been going on for
a long, long time. It all started over three thousand years
ago at Olympia, Greece, where a guy dressed in a mini
skirt would tear out of the city with a lighted torch, and
run all the way from Olympia to a town that was going to
have lots of athletic fun. A large overhead pan filled with
oily stuff was waiting to be set on fire by the runner’s
smoking punk.

This bowl of floating fuel was a ritual to signal strong
men to take part in competitive running and other rough
housing sports. Women during that put down era weren’t
allowed to run around the track or take part in any other
contest. In fact, for a while females couldn’t even witness
the males performing their great feats of manhood
strength, so says history.

But eons later at Bloomsday, more of the fair sex
turned out to participate in all that huffing and puffing than
their counter mates did.

How far back did all this running-walking idea enter
the active minds around these parts? Golly, that’s hard to
say. It was so darn foreign twenty years ago that if you
were running along the side of the highway, cars would
stop and ask ‘what’s up’ or they would offer you a lift.

Later motorists got used to runners and would pass you
up, even if you were injured.

Around the turn of the century at the Lincoln-
Adams County Pioneer Picnic grounds, a kind of an early
day Olympics was held annually. Instead of Chariot
races, plain ordinary horse racing of the fastest kind took
place on a well designed race track. A scooped out path
was laid out for the pounding feet of the sack racers and
for the three legged runners. The horse race track was
used by competitive runners every day during the fiesta.
Aunt Minnie won several prizes that consisted of goodies
instead of ribbons. A fat man’s race was tried out but it
proved to be too dangerous and rather embarrassing.
Border line heavyweights didn’t want to be classified.

Sometimes the early day walking and running came
out of necessity. The first walkathon I ever witnessed took
place between Peach and our watering trough. This
unscheduled 18 mile, one man run-walk event happened
during the summer of 1928. No watering stations or
spectators lined the dusty roadside. A riderless horse lead
the way the course was to be followed.

Bill Thornburg who used to work for my dad during
harvest, had a small peach orchard near the little town of

Peach. He also owned a young female horse that was at
the ripe age for some transportation. But Bill got fooled
when he tried mounting this filly in his yard. She went ar¬
ound and around in circles, and finally broke away from
Thornburg and headed down the road.

Bill figured his horse would be tame enough to sneak
up on, but it didn’t work. To keep from being annoyed,
the filly ran up to Hawk Creek Falls where she could eat
some grass in peace. Again when Bill got close enough to
become a threat, the young mare ran up past the Falls,
and stayed ahead of him for the next 18 milies. The filly’s
escapade ended when she got thirsty enough to walk into
our yard for a cool drink right from the watering trough.
Dad then hooked a halter chain to the bridle of this wan¬
dering horse and chained her to a post.

About five minutes later, Mr. Thornburg ended this
man-beast walkathon by appearing in front of our well,
where he soused himself with water, both inside and out.
Bill was hoping the horse would wander into someone’s
yard before getting to our place.

Determined to get home so he could cool off in
peace, Bill was able to mount the horse with the aid of
dad. Thornburg and the filly left the yard fast like, and
rather on the rough side. We figured both would get
home in no time, and all would be forgiven by Bill. But

Those Horse t

I’m still thinking about Bill Thornburg breaking in a
horse so he could be transported in a more reliable way.
During the animal powered transportation days, a certain
amount of time had to be spent to get all the bugs ironed
out. After break-in was accomplished, the live horse
power part of these vehicles grew in value. Now days, a
modern combustion motor vehicle depreciates as soon as
' the rig is driven away from the car dealer.

In the horse and buggy days not everyone living in
town could own their own transit system. It was next to
impossible for the average city family to have space e-
nough to accomodate the necessary equipment. Each resi¬
dential lot would have had to have room for a stack of
hay, a manure pile, and a stable to hold the driving team,
plus a proper shed to store the carriage in.

Of course if you were among the rich and the spoiled
living in a large city, it was a different story. Spokane’s ear¬
ly day classy people that had plenty of estate, built their
stables to match their mansions in design. Driving teams
had to come up with certain qualifications, including the
color of the horse’s hide and body build.

Take for instance, old man Glover, the father of
Spokane. His oversized family house was, and still is a
massive pile of stones, cement, and lots of heavy wood
that was used to frame out large hollow like rooms. Big¬
ness really takes away that homey feeling. The bulky
combination barn and stables are all gone now, but the
horse and coach path still circles the mansion’s portico
and loading dock. A reminder of the days of splendor
and of coachmen. The mansion is now being used as a
church educational unit, and is on the state historical re¬
gister.

when the two got down to the creek just back of our
place, the filly decided Bill was a load, so she tossed him
off.

The two headed home, again independent of each
other. Except when Bill crawled out from the creek bot¬
tom, he headed for bachelor George Sweetman’s shack
up on the prairie. That evening Mr. Sweetman filled Bill
up with a lot of food, and he slept like a log the whole
night through with bachelor Sweetman as a bed partner.

The next morning Bill hoped to catch a ride back to
Peach, but nobody that went to Davenport ever com¬
pleted the return trip in those days ’til afternoon. The quic¬
kie fresh air ride Bill got out of the filly the day before,
shortened his walk back by a mile.

Upon entering the yard gate, the home grown mare
was there to greet Bill and showed no sign of resenting his
presence. She allowed him to take that darn saddle off of
her.

In those days before cars took over completely,
transportation sometimes turned out to be a balky prob¬
lem. Those of you that are still alive, and knew Bill
Thornburg will remember him as a tall, lean, muscular
guy. If running was the ‘in thing’ then, like it is now, he
would have given our best runners a run for their money.

id Buggy Days

Getting back to the common people, courtship dur¬
ing horse and buggy days was a problem. Especially for
those young fellows that weren’t born with a silver spoon
in their mouths. Some young men just used the family rig
which limited their dating. In dire need for independence,
they would rent a horse and buggy from the livery stable.
Now days with easy car payments, it is possible for the
young blade to go tooling down Riverside Avenue on
Saturday nights.

How far did some of the young men go to achieve a
rig of their own so they could take the fair sex out for a
buggy ride? Well, Pat Sullivan, a young guy who used to
own the quarter I live on, figured for the want of a buggy,
it was worth mortgaging his farm. So on July 2, 1904,
the Spaulding Buggy Manufacturing Company’s sales of¬
fice in Harrington took a Mortgage on this 160 acres for
$120, the full price of their fanciest buggy with the fringe
on top. Two days later on July 4th, Pat was then able to
take his girlfriend for a buggy ride to Davenport, and a
sight seeing drive through the main street of the town.

On Sept. 14, 1904, Pat gathered in enough dough
from his harvested wheat crop to pay the mortgage off on
his farm. It’s interesting when you know the story, and
check through the Abstract of Title for records of this
man’s wild spending spree.

That fall Pat Sullivan started doing a lot of courting in
his mortgage free buggy. However, years later he died
down at Miles without finding any lasting female compa¬
nions.

Some young bucks could not afford a horse, let
alone a buggy. Roy Horton who used to work for dad,
got a job over at the George Sweezy farm. One Sunday

morning while the Sweezy family was at church, Roy got
lonesome and walked to Davenport. He had previously
met a girl in town who he figured didn’t mind going for a
buggy ride with him. So he rented a horse and buggy
from the livery stable for the afternoon.

That evening after checking in his rent-a-buggy and
horse, Roy faced quite a walk back to the Sweezy farm.
In those days it wasn’t too romantic looking at the rear
end of a horse when you parked with your date, but it^
was a good substitute until cars came along.

A Transcontinental Run-Walk

All you retired farmers and those that have been put
out to pasture—are you really satisfied with the daily
humdrum of retirement? Do you realize you may not be
ready to settle for that daily trip to the Post Office or an
afternoon of shopping for the right kind of food that your
aging stomach needs? There may be more restlessness
left in some of us than we realize.

Take for instance old man LeGrande Daby, a retired
farmer from Minnesota. He had it in his head nearly 40
years ago to run-walk from the Atlantic to the Pacific. But
he couldn’t find the time because he and his wife, Ina,
had five boys and a girl to raise up to marriageable age.

Finally when life was pushing LeGrande to the great¬
grandfather stage of life, he and Ina went to Arizona to
find the heavenly bliss of retirement. But shopping for
food, playing croquet, and running in local runs wasn’t
exciting enough for LeGrande. Thoughts of fulfilling his
dream of running and walking across the United States
entered his active but aging mind.

So about a year before his fete, LeGrande sprung his
planned self-propelled running tour across the continent
to Ina. At first Ina resisted with all the 72 year old might
she could muster. She got the five sons, also the daugh¬
ter, and their families to concur with her, all telling gallop¬
ing grandpa it would be dangerous, and was, to put it
most kindly, too far out to be reasonable.

Finally Ina was worn down to grudgingly agreeing to
take part in this escapade. If she had not given in Le¬
Grande told her he would still do his thing the following
year, alone, and with a back pack. She didn’t dare risk
that.

So, four years ago this spring, LeGrande and Ina
hooked their 5th wheeler to the pick-up and drove away
from their retirement home in Prescott, Arizona, and
headed to Eastport, Maine.

Day one began when LeGrande stuck his finger in
the Atlantic Ocean, shook hands with the town mayor,
and was escorted to the edge of town by a police car.
From there on it was LeGrande’s duty to pick up his feet
and lay’em down fast like, ’til he got to the Pacific Ocean.

Of course, it was Ina that made the whole ‘thing’
possible. She had to maneuver the combination sleeping
quarters and cook house through towns and find road¬
side space every four or five miles so husband would have
rest stops.

Each morning for the next four months, LeGrande
would wake up, stretch, and shave. Then he would put
on his running shoes and some well ventilated necessities
and head down the road for a few miles to where Ina fi¬
gured he needed his breakfast. Ina would make her trailer
stops whenever she thought he needed to tank up on
food and water. From time to time reporters and news

cameramen would catch up with the Dabys for interviews
and pictures. Still LeGrande was able to make from 25 to
34 miles a day, all across those many states.

On June 28, near East Grand Fork, Minnesota, the
half way point to the Pacific Ocean was reached. That
day found Ina and the Winnebago in front of their old
Minnesota farm, with grandpa hopping along not too far
behind. LeGrande gauged his speed so as to get to the
old farmstead for one of their son’s 25th wedding adver¬
sary, and their own Golden Anniversary. (July 4th was in
between their two actual anniversary dates.)

What a day, Sunday, July 4th turned out to be for
the Dabys! I believe it would have made a wonderful T.V.
special if word would have gotten out ahead of time.
With loads of friends and relatives from miles around
coming there to celebrate that novel occasion. Those few
days of celebrating gave grandpa LeGrande’s feet a
chance to get some rest.

The last half of LeGrande’s run-walk was most en¬
joyable for Ina. She picked wild flowers along the road¬
side and pressed them while her husband was tearing
across the Northwestern States. “Montana has come
through, after all, with pretty flowers!” she states.

When they made it to west of Reardan, Wash. Ina
wrote in her daily diary: “Dad was stopped by a couple
from California, and by a woman grain hauler. Both had

LeGrande and wife Ina, posing near the Rocklyn road.

100

recognized him from stories on T.V. and wanted to meet
him ... I couldn’t resist taking slide pictures of all these
acres and acres of rolling, yellow grain fields. They are
being harvested now. They are unbelievably immense,
just roll on and on, on both sides of the road, as far as the
eye can see.

“After we parked for the night on a field approach,
we were visited by a pleasant young women, Mrs. Zie-
mer, and later by an older man, a runner, Walt Kik,
whom she called and stayed a long time. He and Le-
Grande babbled on and on about running.

The next day, his wife, Sugar, stopped us to take
pictures. The country is getting rougher, there are still
huge grain fields . . . It’s very hot. LeGrande can stand
the heat better than I can. I was entirely exhausted by
quitting time.

“August 20. It’s plenty hot on the road today. A wo¬
man reporter from the Wilbur, Wash, paper visited with
us at noon for an interview. Right after that, we had to
detour from Almira to Hartline, making extra miles to go
in all that heat. Up and down hills all the time on the de¬
tour. We got to Hartline by 5:00 p.m. and found a nice
little city park . . . We had a good night sleep, no traffic

roaring by for a change.

‘Another hot day!!! First thing this morning, a young
woman stopped to get LeGrande’s autograph. Then a
bicyclist stopped to talk to me and this time took MY pic¬
ture, ’cause LeGrande wasn’t in sight...We finally
reached Coulee City...What surprises me about this
country is that, ’tho it certainly looks like rocky, desert
land, it still has grain fields on the TOPS of the big rolling
hills.”

The Dabys got cooled off by the time they got to the
Cascades. In a few days LeGrande was able to stick his
finger in the Pacific Ocean, thus ending a 40 year old
dream of using his body for a 3,400 mile workout.

June 13, 1986, LeGrande and Ina stopped in for an
overnight stay. They are backtracking his coast to coast
run-walk, to see what it is like doing it by sitting side by
side with each other.

Visiting with LeGrande charged me up enough to
dream of doing a mini run-walk. I’d get to see Sugar
every four or five miles. She would have peanut butter,
bread and fruit all laid out on the pick-up tail gate for me.
But I don’t know. After all, LeGrande is younger than I
am. He is only 75 years old.

Bare Buns Fun Run - 1986

What did I do July 27 on my birthday? Well, I ran in
the Bare Buns Fun Run. After all, I came into this world
naked 77 years ago, and it was neat to have a chance to
celebrate in my same birthday suit. The Pueblo Indians of
early days couldn’t have been any closer to nature than a
group of about 300 were that Sunday. I had the urge to
run without any body coverage, for as long as old man
Daby had for wanting to run across the U.S.

There were lots of runners Sunday in the high caliber
bracket of society that I knew. So before condemning
anyone for enjoying a carefree run, remember it might be
your next door neighbor who ran, minus the fig leaf.
Many of you local runners would know several that didn’t
mind streamlining their bodies down to zero.

How did all this ‘Garden of Eden’ stuff get started?
Sign up forms were available at the Y.W.C.A. The Kanik-
su Ranch that is affiliated with the Northwest Sunbathers
Association sponsored the run. A briefing was held at the
Y.W.C.A. for those that hadn’t run before in this unique
race. Also membership is open to all those who demon¬
strated by their conduct that their attitudes are compatible
with the purpose and goals of the organization.

Thinking I’d be the oldest fossil down at this nature’s
paradise, I got fooled. At the entrance an 80 year old guy
by the name of Matt Roberts is this nudist colony’s official
greeter and sign up fellow. His white hair and all over tan
body truly made him a picture of health.

This nudist camp made as much out of their race as
if it was the Bloomsday run. The night before this mo¬
mentous event, they filled us up on carbo-loaded food.
(Spaghetti, salad and bread.)

What seemed strange to me, was when morning
came, you just got up and got going. There is no value in

having shades in campers, except for special personal oc¬
casions.

What was it like to run ‘bare butt style’? It’s no big
deal. For those that are critical of such goings-on, it’s their
hang-up, not mine. True Bare bun living is not for every¬
one. The only ‘shock’ will be your surprise at how easy it
is to go nude, and how thoroughly enjoyable it can turn
out to be.

To make better time as a streaker, everyone wore
shoes. However, wearing jogging shoes sort of spoiled
that Adam and Eve look. A couple of ladies were wearing
halters due to their heavy breasts getting out of rhythm
with their jogging stride.

The course went down a winding stretch that had
scenic wonders on both sides of the road. The view I had
in front throughout the run, reminded me of artist Reu¬
bens’ paintings of nudes scampering down the road to
somewhere.

Runners were wishing me a happy birthday through¬
out the run. They had my age made up on the running
tag that hung from my neck. How sweet. While picking
up my award, it was a novelty to hear 300 nudies singing
happy birthday to me.

Nudists proved to be a very friendly bunch. They all
seemed interested about the good life, and who you are,
which made us visitors feel quite at home. The conversa¬
tion never settled on how much clothes cost, or where
you got them.

Recreational sports including swimming are as much
a part of nudist life as sunbathing itself. The association
maintains a legal fund to fight any harassment by local
authorities when members are on chartered grounds.

101

It was a pleasure to visit and experience something
different. They all have their own unique personalities,
including the youngsters who also know when and where
stripping is OK.

Sugar didn’t want to get her buns sunburned, so she
didn’t go with me. She went to the Rocklyn picnic in¬
stead. I made it back late Sunday to Mielke’s picnic
grounds, where the accepted way of life greeted my eyes
with sights of shorts, slacks and farmers in overalls. I gave

Sugar a big hug, and thanked her for her special birthday
present of encouraging me to do my own thing. Happy
birthday was sung by a smaller group this time that had
clothes on.

Later I grabbed a ride on one of the Mielke spon¬
sored hayrides. Wearing shorts did protect my buns while
sitting on those stickery haybales. It made viewing the
evening scenery from the wagon more comfortable.

Curious Questions

A number of interesting questions arose from the
minds of the inquisitive about the sunbathers’ run. It was
advertised in a northwest runners’ guide where this 5K
was to take place. The Y.W.C.A. was kind enough to let
this skin exposure bunch hold a couple of screening ses¬
sions at their establishment. The Kaniksu Ranch is the
only Sunbathing Association that has ever sponsored a
run, nudist style. Next year they intend to add to their
scampering a 10 K run.

For you that think nudism is the creation oh the pre¬
sent overstepping generation, you are fooled. It had its
beginning in Germany around 1920. A German immi¬
grant named Kurt Barthel and his wife brought nudism to
America in 1929. Since then 180 nudist organizations
have been formed throughout North America. They were
first called the ‘American League for Physical Culture’
which eventually became the American Sunbathers As¬
sociation. Kaniksu Ranch will celebrate its 50th anniver¬
sary next year. A charter member couple was on the
grounds, taking in the Bare Buns Run. This couple hopes
to witness many more summer events in their birthday
suits.

Now to answer some deep thinking questions that
I’ve been asked. No, I don’t plan on joining the nudist as¬
sociation. There is no scientific evidence that exposure of
my buns will lengthen my life any. However, since I’ve
been darn near a nudist all my life, I felt very much at
home fellowshipping with this special bunch of people. If
we lived closer to Kaniksu Ranch I probably would join,
in support of their freedom from social hang-ups.

Yes, you are right. Dining out at this nudist colony is
not a coat and tie affair. When eating in their dining
room, you are as naked as your sandals allow you to be.
A sign over the kitchen area was one I could appreciate
about 10 years ago. It read: ‘No shoes, No shirt, Service
with a smile.” For the ladies, Kaniksu Rjrnch is no place
to try out your new bikini. At the swimming pool they
have a sign posted, “No swim suits allowed.”

Nudists are not entirely against wearing clothes dur¬
ing the summer months. Have you ever tried to fry bacon
in the nude? When I went to pick up my breakfast, the
cook’s body was draped with a mother hubbard type of
apron.

No, a nudie smoker doesn’t tie a cigarette package
around their neck. There were a few naked cigarette
smokers, and they didn’t stray very far from their fix.

To me, today’s nudist could simply be described as
someone who enjoys camping, swimming, exercising,
and socializing without the need to remain clothed. The

body is beautiful, and comes in various shapes and sizes.
It’s the physical house we live in.

Aren’t you afraid of getting skin cancer the way you
run around? No, but I’ll see a doctor if something looks
funny on my skin. We now have that safety feature that
ancient humans didn’t have. Ever since my teenage days
I wore a constant tan, and that prevented seasonal sun¬
burns, which seems to be the real problem. For you
spring whites, why not smear your whole skin surface
with a suntanning lotion ’til the sun and you become part¬
ners? Good gosh! for millions of years every living thing
depended on the sun for life. We humans evolved to
where nature gave us a tan. If I’m not outside when the ,
sun is out, I don’t feel happy. Even the lights in our house
have to match the power of a bright day.

So far nobody took time to ask me whai the crops
were like on my farm this year. Well I’m going to tell you
anyway. The yield fell into the one digit figure, less than
10 bushel per acre. Renter Gene Stuckle had some fields
on my cousin’s farm that did make 30 bushels.

I didn’t even ride the combine this harvest. The
crops looked bad enough from the ground, let alone see¬
ing it from the top of a self-propel. The last few years this
same land averaged 50 bushels an acre.

Stuckle nearly busted his buns (a word commonly
used nowdays) trying to get a crop on the road to pro¬
duce lots of wheat. A dose of heavy fertilizer was applied.
Early seeding was done. When cheat grass threatened to
take over a good stand of wheat, Gene reseeded, but
there was no growing time left, because winter came in
November. When spring arrived, Gene risked his neck by
flying on lots of anti-weed stuff. Stuckle’s reward? Not e-
nough wheat could be squeezed out of the crop to pay for
his farm expense.

Some of us retired farmers sort of felt smug that we
had a small wad saved up for retirement years. But that’s
not much satisfaction when you see younger farmers with
good intentions that may go down the drain, if extended
help is not given.

102

Grand Coulee’s Over The Dam Run

The month of August brings an end to summer. The
cheerful sounds of youngsters as they splash the water’s
edge of our many lakes ends also. The smell of fall takes
over. Fairs throughout the state begin showing off their
wares, which include runs, parades, and lots and lots of
visiting.

When harvest days are over, time will tell who will be
the happy farmers. All it takes to reach that goal is for the
price of wheat to go skyward, a crop that you couldn’t
walk through without cutting a path, and a wife who
thinks you are the greatest.

On August 16, 1986, a couple of young farmers left
their air conditioned combines to work out their stress by
taking part in a hot afternoon run down at the Dam.
Grand Coulee’s Over the Dam Run is sort of the inter¬
state affair of the summer season, and has been going at
it for 10 years now. The Dam is a good drawing card for
the out of staters who usually plan their vacations, so as
to take in the run. Regulars from Canada, Alaska, Cali¬
fornia, and all points locally have been chasing them¬
selves over the Dam course for many a hot summer.

The massiveness of the Dam makes the run a geolo¬
gical wonder. Solid ledges of towering granite rock are
going to hold that Dam in for a long time to come. The
control guys at the Dam pulled some levers that made a
large waterfall cascade over the dam all during the run.
When the last runner hobbled in, the Dam’s water valves
were screwed down tight. What a treat it was for the eyes

and body! I swear it cooled down the temperature in the
last mile of the run.

Of course our Dorris Cronrath of Odessa was the top
female streamliner, averaging a mile every six and a half
minutes. The Dam Run is especially noted for its oldies.
Every year, many a good runner that hasn’t burned out
before reaching 65 is being added to the list.

After the run, the Dam Park (no offense) is a dandy
place to visit with annual friends. I was introduced to a
farmer that’s been hacking away trying to make a living,
but figures he will be wiped out this fall. He takes part in
harvest runs and realizes he can’t run away from his prob¬
lems. Yet, it helps temporarily. Jokingly he also added,
“Running is the only sport I can afford now. It will keep
me well supplied with T-shirts when I go out looking for a
job.”

A lot of farmers are not sitting on such shaky
ground, but that’s not of any help to the soil tillers that are
in trouble. The ones that started up with a bang when
high inflation was going full blast, spiked themselves up to
go wide open. Their mistakes were taken care of by infla¬
tion. But when something happened to inflation, and that
worthless price for wheat set in, it simply raised heck with
the non-fortified farmer.

We retired farmers had our day of suffering, but
from a different angle. I don’t believe we were tempted so
much to over buy, or to over speculate. Still, a lot of us
older guys had to live through a lot of high and low points
to preserve the family farm.

Sounds Of Nature

I guess I’m a little like what Henry Thoreau said
' about himself, “I have a real genius for staying at home.”
That’s not to say one shouldn’t at rare times wander away
a 1,000 miles or so and find out what it’s like to be away
from an established environment.

In Thoreau’s time, there were no steam or nuclear
plants to bug his environment. Fortunately, there is still
enough aroma, sights and sounds of nature left to remind
us of past events. Last spring while on a walk, Sugar
found a strong smelling flower and held it in front of my
nose. The aroma woke up some sleeping memory cells.
My mind went back to when as a first grader, I walked
home from school across the pasture. While bluebirds
were fluttering from one sagebrush to another, I remem¬
ber pulling up that same small weed-like flower for sniff¬
ing.

Going for walks is really neat. Like Thoreau said,
“He who rides and keeps the beaten track, studies the
fences chiefly.” Running also takes away some of the
scenery, as one is too busy receiving the health benefits of
circulating gobs of air through the lungs. On long walks,
did you ever sit down to rest and find a whole garden of
things before your very eyes?

Some friends of ours, when gas was cheap, took a
two week trip through 17 states. When asked why they
were camping down at the lake after such a long trip,

they said, “Oh, we’re spending the rest of our vacation
time down here resting up.” They didn’t see a damm
thing except the road, two car wrecks and signs showing
places to park for the night.

How about staying off the rambling freeways as
much as possible? We cannot tune in successfully to the
sounds of nature and noise at the same time. On one of
our walks down to the creek, Sugar made it be known
she’d just as soon I would stop talking to listen to the still¬
ness, which has a sound of it’s own. That treat lasted ’til
some low-flying practice bombers zoomed over our
heads.

It’s to everyone’s taste, but a lot of old time settlers
settled in cracks between two hills. They shortened their
sights of-scenery a whole lot. Those pioneers must have
been thinking of easy access to water, and nothing else.
It’s like living in trenches.

My dream before reaching the end of life’s rope is to
drag an old shack with a lot of cracks in it to a high spot.
There is no greater tranquility for an insomniac than to
hear nature stirring around outside a not too protected
shack.

The thought of having a Henry Thoreau type of ca¬
bin came to me before Sugar entered my life. During the
summer months, my bedroom partner was a combine
next to my cot, in an open machine shed. The shed was

103

located by a wheat field. On sultry nights, sudden wind
storms would rattle the standing wheat, and the damp¬
ness gave off a fresh vegetation aroma. A few raindrops

would find their way through the cracks, causing a restful,
contented feeling to pass over me. It gave me reason to
believe that we could have a fair crop after all.

Some Heavy Stuff

Powerful Statements

Old age is an incurable disease.

Anger is a brief madness, but it can do damage that
lasts forever.

When the judgment is weak the prejudice is strong.
Opinions grounded on prejudice are always sustained
with the greatest violence.

Bad meals kill more than the best doctors ever cured.
Exercise, Good Cheer and Moderate Diet are the three
best doctors.

The future joy makes the past and the present bear¬
able.

There’s no joy in anything unless we share it.

We come to Being quite by chance,

And life is but a fleeting glance —

Just one glimpse, and then ’tis o’er,

And Time rolls on just as before.

Sugar Kik

I call that mind free which jealously

guards its intellectual rights and powers,

Which does not content itself with a
passive or hereditary faith.

I call that mind free which resists
the bondage of habit,

Which does not mechanically copy the
past, nor live on its old virtues:

But which listens for new and higher
monitions of conscience,

And rejoices to pour itself forth in
fresh and higher exertions.

I call that mind free which sets no bounds to its love . . .

Bill Charming

Memories are jewels set in place
Like paths of yesterday retraced.

Buried in hearts, seasoned with time.

Freshened by moments of the mind.

The pages turn, one by one,

as Time runs out before we’ve begun;
but another hand takes up the pen,

fills his page, and then.

passes it on to another and yet another.

Authors unknown

Dear Walt:

Your Davenport Times articles have made me
smile and have reminded me that I, too, am creating
history. I’ve been touched by the grown from knowing
you through your writings. Thanks for sharing yourself
via newsprint. I will miss you - your breezy philosophy,
gusty humor and hurricane energy. Write your book,
vacation with your wife, then come back to your
Davenport Times readers.

Sincerely,

Lynne Carstens

Reardan, Washisngton (Sept. 1986)

Resurrection Day

(An understanding request)

By Grace Gibson, Wilbur, Wash.

That glorified new body you can leave on the rack!

It’s the old one I cherished that I’m wanting back.

The rusted out old one with all of the scars
Was far more precious for all of the mars.

That shining brand new one would startle my eyes,

While his old used one was my special prize.

When I limp into Heaven please God, let me see
My beloved old husband just like he used to be.

Around 1911 - Loads of wheat being transported past Sprague’s old Cathf^lc^Clntrcl^

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